A Drink Called Loneliness
by Loopylou
Summary: A lonely drive home turns into something much more complicated when Raylan stops to help a broken down car. Why is there a young woman running scared in the woods?
1. Chapter 1

They're not mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to return them in good condition.

Kidding aside, all publicly recognisable characters belong to their original owners. I'm just paying tribute to one of the best shows of TV.

Author's note- Made some changes to this. For some reason, I changed from past to present tense for the last few paragraphs. I really shouldn't write when I don't have a cup of coffee. ;) Sorry about the mistake folks.

Anyway, I added a few more details to this. Hope you like the changes.

A Drink Called Loneliness

Chapter One

Sunset painted the sky in shades of amber and pale rose as Raylan turned his car away from the prison gates. He glanced ruefully at the bundle of paperwork sitting on the seat next to him. In any other office, it would have been a punishment labelled with another name. Here, it was just another part of the job.

The sunset faded. Dusk settled in deeper, turning the sky a rainbow of blues and purples. Trees flicked by outside of the window. He ignored them, keeping his eyes on the road. Just the week before, he'd almost been killed when a deer ran out onto the road. He flicked on the car's lights, catching the reflection of beady eyes on the side of the road.

"Stay where you are, deer," he murmured to himself, speeding past. He caught a flick of a white tail as the deer heeded his advice and leaped away from the road.

His cell phone rang, sounding loud in the growing darkness. One-handed, he fished it out and answered it without looking at the screen. _Got a good idea of who it'll be,_ he thought.

"Hello?" He asked, easing off the gas just a touch, in case any more suicidal deer were lurking in the trees.

"Where are you, Raylan?" Art asked. The connection made his voice sound thin and tinny.

"I'm on my way back now. Be a couple of hours. Where do you need me?"

"We're still waiting for that warrant to come through. Go on home, and I'll call you if anything changes."

"Tim still sitting on their house?"

"Yup." Art sighed. "We know the son of a bitch is in there. We just can't prove it."

A quick smile touched Raylan's lips. "Want me to do their yard? I've heard that works."

Art laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

The phone connection dropped for a few seconds. "Raylan? You still there?"

He murmured an assent, checking the road before making a right turn. "I'm here."

Flashing lights on the side of the road caught his attention. He slowed, stopping behind the patrol car. A blue Tahoe with the hood up sat at an angle to the curb. There was no-one in sight. "Art? Got something weird here. Can you run some plates for me?"

He described the scene briefly, giving Art both plate numbers.

"I'll get Rachel on it for you." Art said. "And, Raylan? For the love of God, try not to shoot anyone else, okay?"

Raylan un-fastened his seatbelt, pausing with one hand on the door. "Do my best," he muttered.

"Yeah, maybe that's what I'm afraid of, huh?" Art asked. "Keep the connection open. Do you know how much paperwork I'd have to fill out if you got shot on the side of some road?"

"Quite a bit, I'd imagine," Raylan said, then slipped his phone back into his pocket. He pulled his flashlight out of the glove compartment and checked its brightness against his hand.

He slid out of the car, holding his gun by his side as he inched towards the patrol car. Ten steps away, he saw the blood splattered on the side of the patrol car. Training had his gun up as he stopped to scan the area before walking again. Two more steps let him see the body on the ground by the front wheels. He crept towards the body, pausing long enough to check for a pulse.

"Got a dead patrolman here, Art." He hoped like hell that his boss could hear him.

He reached the Tahoe. Something moved inside, rocking the big vehicle. He couldn't tell what because the windows were made from smoked glass. It bounced his torch light straight back at him. All of the doors were unlatched. He kicked one open with the toe of his boot.

A dark, growling shape leapt at him. He fired a shot that blew out the side window, then had to drop his gun when the dog lunged for him. The big black animal sank its teeth into Raylan's arm, knocking him over backwards. He hit the ground with a grunt, working to keep the dog's teeth away from his neck. His back-up gun dug painfully into his spine.

The dog let go of his wrist and lunged at his neck, dragging warm, wet teeth across the skin of Raylan's shoulder. Pain followed, fiery brands radiating from the gouges. It dragged a grunt from him. He got his hands up just in time, deflecting the dog's mouth from his neck to the meat of his shoulder.

It gave him just enough leverage to twist onto his side, sliding one hand behind himself to yank the gun from the small of his back. He jammed the gun against the dog's chest and pulled the trigger. The animal yelped, then fell still, collapsing on the ground next to Raylan.

For a long moment, he didn't move, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Tinny noise from his pocked jerked him back to the real world. Carefully, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, wincing when his raw knuckles scraped against the denim of his jeans.

He lifted the phone to his ear with a shaking hand. "I'm gonna need an ambulance," he muttered, and closed his eyes as he pictured his boss' reaction to that.

A beat of dead silence answered his request. "Who'd you shoot this time?" Art asked, voice weary.

Raylan glanced to the right, were the dog's body lay. "A dog." He let out a long breath, tasting his own blood. "Ambulance is for me. Damn thing got me pretty good."

"How bad are you hurt?" Art asked.

Blood had pooled under his wrist. He tucked the phone between his good shoulder and his ear and stretched a few inches to pick up the flashlight. His gun had landed next to it, and he picked that up, fumbling it into his pocket with his injured hand. He gritted his teeth and pushed his sleeve up to look at the damage. The bright white light showed an ugly wound, still bleeding freely. Bone glinted dully in a few sport.

"Pretty bad," he admitted, and rolled on his side to get to his feet. For a long second, his knees didn't want to hold his weight. He braced his good shoulder against a tree until the shakiness in his legs passed. Blood dripped on the floor as he walked back towards his car.

The phone beeped quietly, telling him his call had been disconnected. _Well, shit,_ he thought and stuffed it back into his pocket. The car was only a few steps away. He focused on getting there, knowing he really had to stop the bleeding before he passed out. The wounds were starting to hurt, dull throbs of pain shooting through him.

A sound caught his attention. He stopped, cocking his head to listen. "Hope that's not your big brother," he muttered and glanced at the dead dog.

He pulled his gun, holding it by his leg. "Hello?" he called softly. "Do you need help?"

The lights from the parked patrol car stretched far enough into the woods to let him see something pale moving towards him. Pain sang through him, but he forced it to the back of him mind, gripping the gun a little tighter. The footsteps kept coming. He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth and lifted the gun, aiming it at the approaching figure.

It took him a beat to realise that the person walking towards him was no threat. Her nightgown was torn, filthy with dirt and other things. Her feet were bloody, hands bound in front of her. Blood covered her face from a wound on her forehead. Her wildly tangled honey-blonde hair framed a face that was far too thin.

She stopped just inside of the tree line, head tilted in question. He tucked the gun away, flinching when his sleeve pulled free of the wound on his shoulder with a gush of fresh blood. It trickled down his back in a thick, warm stream, soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

"I'm a deputy US marshal, ma'am. I'm here to help." He kept his voice low and easy.

She smiled sadly, walking backwards. "You can't help me."

"Ma'am. Please wait... Just give me a second, okay?" Desperation sang through his words. "Ma'am, can you tell me who did this to you? If you wait here with me, we can get you to the hospital."

She shook her head again and kept walking. Headlights round the bend on the road. He turned to look. An ambulance swept around the curve. When he looked back at the woods, she had vanished, as if she'd never been there in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Art paused in the hospital doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, eyes fixed on the battered man on the bed. The doctor glanced up and saw him. She was a short, red-haired woman with startling green eyes. Blood covered her gloves and plastic apron.

Discarded swabs and syringes lay on the table next to her, along with a box of dressings, bandages and tape. She dropped another swab and picked up a fresh one, using it to wipe away the blood before she placed another suture.

"You can come in." She smiled and nodded towards her patient. "He's awake. We're almost done here. I'm just putting his shoulder back together."

Raylan looked over at the door. His shirt lay in tatters on the side table. Blood marked his chest and upper arm, smeared in places where he'd moved. His jeans bore spots of blood that had started to dry. Bright white bandages covered his right arm from his knuckles to almost his elbow. Dark bruises dotted his back and ribs.

The doctor put another suture in the torn flesh on his shoulder, then snipped the ends and reached for more bandages. She covered the damage with a dressing and taped it into place. She touched the back of his hand. "I'll be right back."

Raylan nodded, his attention fixed on Art. The older man walked into the room, smiling at the doctor as she slipped past him and out of the door. The smile died as soon as they were alone in the room. A worried frown grew on his face.

"How do you feel?" Art set the bag he was carrying on the table and dropped into a seat. "Really got ya, didn't it?"

"Like hell." Raylan said shortly. "Did you find the girl?"

Art shook his head. "They're still looking. Lots of cabins and hides in that area. It could take a while."

"I know." Raylan sighed. "I just hope they find her. Gonna be cold tonight. She won't survive if she's out in the woods."

"The local police are calling in the scent dogs. If there's a trail, they'll find her. It'll just take time."

Raylan sighed again. "I know."

Art studied the younger man's face, noting the weariness in his eyes. The stubble on his cheeks didn't quite hide how thin his face had become. The splashes of blood had started to dry and turn rust-brown. It and the bruises stood out on his pale skin. Art let his gaze drop lower, sweeping it over too-prominent ribs and sharp shoulder blades. He sighed, drawing Raylan's attention.

The dark haired man glanced over. "Still hate hospitals, huh?"

"Yup." Art forced a chuckle. "And yet you keep dragging me to them."

Raylan opened his mouth to speak, letting it close as the doctor came back into the room. She held up two boxes of tablets.

"Antibiotics. Three a day for seven days. Take them with food." She handed him them, and held up the other box. "Painkillers. Two every four hours for the next couple of days. Take them- don't try to tough it out. Believe me, you'll heal better." She lifted an eyebrow at his expression. "I've made an appointment with the clinic for you to get those bandages changed day after tomorrow."

Raylan closed his eyes, gathering his strength before he tried to get up. The local anaesthetic was starting to wear off and the pain had started to come back. The headache growing at the back of his skull didn't help.

The doctor watched him stand, a frown forming on her face. "You lost a lot of blood. I'd like you to stay here tonight, under observation."

"No, thank you, doctor," Raylan said. "Is there something I need to sign before I go?"

Art twitched, his frown deepening. "Raylan..."

The younger man held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not staying," he said quietly, but firmly.

Clearly un-happy, she reached for the folder on the table and flicked through the papers inside of it, finding the one she wanted after a few seconds. She slid it towards him. "Is there anyone at home to watch you, at least?"

He didn't look up from reading the page. "Nope. Just me."

She sighed. "Look, I want someone to watch you tonight. Blood loss isn't something to mess about with."

"You can sleep in my spare room," Art said firmly. "Don't argue with me, or I'll have you filling out paperwork for the rest of your life."

Raylan held up a hand, knowing when to admit defeat. "Okay."

The doctor turned to Art. "Make sure he drinks plenty of clear fluids. A good steak or two won't hurt, either. And don't let him drink any alcohol."

Art nodded. "I'll make sure he takes care of himself."

"Thanks, doc." Raylan said, carefully swinging his legs off the bed. The colour drained from his face. For a long second, he held himself up with one hand on the bed. The second passed and he let out a long, shaky breath.

Art stood and pulled a t-shirt out of the bag. He held it out to the younger man, who eyed it for a beat before taking it. "I left your hat in the car," Art offered.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun," Raylan muttered, pulling the worn cotton over his head. The movement jarred his shoulder, forcing a pained grunt from him. He smoothed the fabric with his good hand.

"I brought you a jacket. You want it?" Art asked.

"Thanks, Mom." Raylan joked faintly and nodded, letting the older man settle the jacket over his shoulders.

"Don't come back too soon, ya hear?" The doctor said as they walked towards the door. "Watch how you go now. And please, rest."

"I'll do my best," Raylan said with a faint smile as they crossed into the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The car headlights sliced through the dark, making drifts of mist glow white against the road. Art slowed as he drove through a small town, stopping at a red light. A thin, mangy dog trotted down the side of the road, a rabbit hanging from his mouth. The dog paused to look over its shoulder before bolting for the woods at the side of the road. Art watched it go, thinking of all the bad things he'd seen in those same woods.

The car bumped over a rough patch of road, jolting it's passengers. Raylan opened his eyes slowly, blinking away sleep. He shifted in his seat, tugging at the seatbelt. The movement jarred his shoulder. He held his breath until the pain eased, then glanced at his boss. The clock on the dashboard told him he'd been out for the better part of an hour.

"Any word?" His voice came out low and hoarse. "About the girl?"

Art shook his head. "No. We did get a preliminary report on the patrolman though."

"He was shot?" Raylan cleared his throat, glancing out of the window. "That's what it looked like."

A truck passed by on the other side of the road, lights turning the glass into a mirror for a brief moment. The reflection looking back at him didn't look happy.

Art nodded. "Twice in the chest with a deer rifle. Someone wanted him dead. The video from his car is on the way to the lab now. We should have something back by morning."

"What were they doing out there?" Raylan murmured. "I can see the Tahoe breaking down, and the patrolman pulling over. The folks in the Tahoe freak out because they have something they shouldn't and shoot him." He tapped a finger on his knee. "Where does the girl come in, though?"

"Did it seem like she was running to the car or away from it?"

Raylan lifted an eyebrow, face thoughtful. "Well, she was in the woods when I first saw her."

"Might not be connected," Art said. "Maybe the girl escaped from somewhere, heard the car and ran towards it. She sees the patrolman get shot and gets scared, runs back into the woods."

"Maybe." Raylan tilted his head, lips pressed together. "Why run from me? I told her who..." He let the sentence trail off as both phones started to ring.

Art frowned. "I told them not to ring you," he muttered, and slid his own phone out of his pocket. "Art Mullen."

Raylan slumped against the seat again, taking a swig of water from the bottle he'd left in the glove compartment. His gaze turned back to the woods, wondering if the girl was still alive. His gut was telling him that she wasn't. He ignored it. His gut had been wrong before.

The night had turned cold and crisp. The ground fog seemed to hang in the air, drifting through the trees. Silver tipped moonlight reflected on the tree branches. It made the woods look like the set of a horror movie.

The headlights reflected on the eyes of some small animal, turning them green and eerie for a split second. He blinked, and they vanished back into the scrubby undergrowth. A tumble-down house flashed by in a blur of white and faded red. Raylan got an impression of a rusted car up on blocks in the front yard.

Art sighed and dropped his phone into the central console.

"They found her." Raylan made it a flat statement rather than a question. The look on his boss' face had already given him the answer.

"They did." Art rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She's dead. Shot in the back with a deer rifle. Looks like the same one used to kill the patrolman."

Raylan blew out a long breath. "So they're connected."

"Looks that way." Art braked, turning the car onto another road.

"Where'd they find her?" Raylan drank another swig of water, glancing at the clock to see if he could take another dose of painkillers.

"Little cabin out just off the old logging road. Nothing much inside of it. The local police are sending over the photographs that they took."

Raylan picked at the tape on his bandages. "This is making my nape hairs stand on end."

Art blew out a breath. "Yeah, I don't much like it either."

He let the car slow as they drove into the city limits. His phone rang again. The two men shared a look before Art answered the call.

"Thanks, Rachel," he said after listening for a few minutes.

Raylan tilted his head in question. "More bad news?"

"Well, we know who the girl was now. She was nineteen, called Shelley Decosta. Parents reported her as a missing person three weeks ago up in La Grange. Fingerprints were in the system from a minor drug offence a year ago."

The traffic lights in front of them turned red. Art coasted to a halt, turning to look at Raylan. In the pale light, the younger man looked tired. A crease between his eyebrows suggested that his wounds were growing painful again.

He raised his eyebrows at his boss. "How'd she get from La Grange to the woods out by Big Sandy? Teenagers usually head to the nearest big city."

"I don't think she was a run away." Art tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"You think she was snatched." Raylan fiddled with a button on his jacket. "She's not the only one, is she?"

Art shook his head grimly. "I hope so, but I really doubt it."

Raylan sighed. "Me too."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_Sharp branches and stones tore at his bare feet as he ran through the woods, arms up as he tried desperately to protect his face. Branches lashed against his as he ran. Thorny shrubs grabbed and ripped his skin. The scents of bruised leaves and wet earth mixed with blood from his body. _

_A large, hollow log gave him a place to pause for a second, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Water tinkled off to his left, and he crawled out of the log, running towards the small creek. It told him how far into the woods he'd run. _

_A chilling howl close – too close- behind him drove him forward, heedless of anything but the blind, naked fear of what was coming from him. A stone turned under his foot, pitching him headlong into the steep ravine. _

_Pain roared through his body as rocks slammed against him. He landed with a thump in the sludgy water, limbs trembling with exhaustion. A pebble bounced down the ravine._

_He sucked in a breath that burned in his lungs and looked to see pearl-white teeth and eye like glowing embers as the hound launched itself at him. The animal's weight bore him backwards, trapping him in the water as teeth closed on his neck..._

He gasped, eyes flying open. His pulse beat hard in the hollow of his throat. The pale rose light of dawn lit the room well enough for his darting gaze to check every corner, every shadow until he remembered where he was.

_Well, shit, _he though, pulse slowing. His mouth twisted sourly as he thought of the dog in his dream. _That old nightmare finally got a new twist._

His racing heartbeat started to slow. He tossed the sweat-dampened sheets away from his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The polished wooden floor was cool on his feet as he walked stiffly towards the small bathroom, flipping the light on as he passed the switch.

A long mirror took up one wall of the bathroom. He paused in front of it, studying the pattern of claw marks and bruises on his skin. A raised red line scored his neck where the dog's teeth had scraped away layers of skin.

Impulsively, he worked a nail under the tape on his shoulder and removed the bulky dressing, leaning forward to examine the damage. The dark sutures stood out against his raw skin. A few of the wounds had beads of dry blood on them. He grunted and recovered his shoulder. _Damn lucky this time, _he thought, eyes drifting down to the bandages on his arm.

He grabbed a clean washcloth and wet it under the hot tap, briskly washing his face. A knock on the door caught his attention. He let the washcloth drop back into the sink and headed towards the door.

"Raylan? You awake?" Art asked through the door.

"I am." Raylan answered and pulled the door open. "Thanks for..."

Art waved the thanks away. "Do I have to remind you how much paperwork I'd have if you'd bled to death in your hotel room?"

A wan smile quirked Raylan's mouth. "I know, I know."

"We're having breakfast. You gonna join us?" Art asked. "My wife cooks a mean pancake."

Raylan nodded. "Let me just grab a shirt."

He ducked back into the room, searching through the bag Art had brought for him. A pale blue t-shirt tangled on his hand, and he pulled it out, slipping it over his head with a pained grunt.

Art leaned against the doorway, watching the younger man. "You've got a couple of week's sick leave coming. We'll fill out the paperwork today at the office, then I want you to go home and rest."

Raylan nodded, already knowing it had been coming. "Sure you can manage without me?"

He walked towards the door, letting Art lead the way to the kitchen. "Oh, I think we'll manage."

The smell of cooking bacon and brewing coffee made Raylan's stomach rumble. He smiled at Art's wife.

"Morning, Ms. Mullen," he said politely.

"Please, sit, Raylan. Do you want coffee?"

He nodded and sat down opposite Art. "Please."

She poured him a cup of coffee, setting it down in front of him. "Art tells me you were attacked by a dog," she said, sliding a plate loaded with pancakes and bacon onto the table before taking her own seat.

They shared the pancakes out, eating in silence for a few moments. Raylan picked at his, eating a few bites before laying his fork down. He drank a mouthful of coffee, letting the bitter liquid chase the last of the sleep from his brain.

Art finished his breakfast, standing to deposit the plates into the sink. "Thanks, hon."

Raylan stood to join his boss at the door. Ms. Mullen caught hold of his good wrist. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

He smiled, ducking his head. "I will."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The elevator door pinged open. Raylan stepped out, following the local police chief down the drab hallway. It had been painted a particularly nasty shade of puke green. The local police wanted him to take a look at the body. They had found signs that other girls had been held in the cabin.

A cold blast of air swept out of the morgue as the doors swung open. The body was already laid out, covered in a simple white sheet. The coroner stood next to the table, a clipboard in her hands. 

"Good morning," she said. "Thanks for coming all the way over here. I'm sure it won't take long. Are you ready?"

He glanced at her, surprised by the speed. She tilted her head towards three more bodies on tables by the wall. "Got a busy day lined up. Sooner I get this done, the better. For the girl's family, too."

"Ain't that the truth?" Raylan stopped next to the table. "I'm ready."

She folded the sheet back, smoothing it with a practiced motion. The girl's body had been washed, all of the blood and dirt removed from her face. The wild blonde hair had been brushed and fastened back in a low pony tail to keep it tidy and out of the way. Her skin was the colour of old pearls, with an odd, waxy sheen.

Raylan stared at the sheet-draped body. He studied the girl's still face for a long moment, examining her features against the ones in his mind.

"This isn't the girl that I saw. They look alike, but the girl in the woods had a scar here." He touched one finger to the edge of his eyebrow. "This girl- Shelley Decosta- doesn't have that scar."

"Are you sure?" the local police chief asked. "This girl fits the description you gave pretty darn well. What with the injury and all... Well, are you sure you're not mistaken?"

Raylan tensed his lips. "Yes, she does. But she's not the girl that I saw."

He nodded his thanks as the coroner, who stepped forward to re-cover the girl's body.

The police chief followed him out of the cold room. "God-damnit. You mean to say there's more than one blonde girl running about in my woods?"

Raylan nodded. "Yup."

The shorter man frowned. "Well, shit."

"I'm sorry about the patrolman you lost. That's always tough," Raylan offered as they waited for the elevator doors to open.

They stepped into the small space at the same time, both reaching for the button. A flash of movement caught Raylan's attention, and he twisted to the side just in time to avoid a punch to the kidneys.

"Don't be sorry about that little shit head. This is all his fault. If he'd done as he was told, I'd be at home right now, drinking liquor and watching something good on the TV."

Raylan backed up carefully, watching the shorter man. The police chief had drawn his gun, the muzzle pointed directly at Raylan's heart.

"What's going on?" Raylan asked, keeping his voice slow and calm. "Can we talk about this?"

The police chief shook his head. "What's going on is, you know far too much. You saw one of the girls. I'm sorry, Raylan, you seem like a decent enough guy, but I can't let you live."

"You gonna shoot me in a building full of people?" He held eye contact with the shorter man.

"Of course not. Who do you think I am?" The police chief scoffed. "We're gonna walk out of here nice and easy. You're gonna get into the car with me and I'm gonna take you some place no-one will ever find you."

"Now, look at this from my point of view. That don't sound real good to me," Raylan said. "How about we forget this ever happened, and you walk away?"

The police chief laughed. "Not gonna happen, Marshal."

"Don't make me shoot you, chief," Raylan warned, voice low. He glanced at the numbers above the door, knowing he didn't have much time left before they reached the main lobby.

"Like you could, with that arm," the chief scoffed. "That was my damn dog you shot."

Raylan eased his hand towards his gun. "He attacked me first. It was justified."

The chief swung his gun, smashing the butt into Raylan's injured shoulder. "Get your hands away from those weapons."

Bright, dazzling pain shot through him, turning the world distant and hazy for a long second. He felt hands on his body, but couldn't do anything about them, riding the pain until it passed.

When the stars cleared from his eyes, the chief had his own gun pointed at him. "You're gonna walk out of here, nice and easy, or I'll shoot the first cop that I see with this gun. Everyone will swear it was you who did it. After all, you do have a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later."

"Fine." Raylan bit off the word. "You won't get away with this, chief. They'll tear this county apart looking for me."

The chief laughed again as the doors slid open. "Maybe I'll leave a piece of you big enough for them to identify."

He gestured Raylan forward, poking him in the back with the muzzle of the gun. "Try anything, and I'll shoot you right now."

Raylan walked out of the elevator, eyes darting around the lobby. It was deserted. He paused, hearing voices. The chief jabbed the gun into his kidney again, forcing him onwards.

They reached the parking lot. Raylan paused in the doorway, scanning the open space for a friendly face. Rows of cars met his gaze, all empty and still. "Now what do we do?"

He didn't hear the answer before the world fell on top of his head and everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

He woke in a dark, close space, too small for his height. It forced him to bend his knees at an uncomfortable angle. Metal handcuffs bit into his wrists, sending fierce pain up his arm. Movement and the faint smell of exhaust fumes told him that he was in the trunk of a car. The road rumbled past inches below his head, blocking out all other sounds.

_How long was I out?_ he thought foggily and tried to lift his arms towards his face so he could see his watch. A sharp wash of pain stopped him. It drew beads of sweat onto his brow and the back of his neck. He licked his lips, tasting salt and stale copper.

Carefully, he laid his arm back down, trying to cushion it on his stomach as best he could. Bright, multi-coloured stars danced in front of his eyes. A headache exploded to life at the base of his skull. It made his stomach roll uneasily. He swallowed dryly, tasting blood at the back of his throat.

The car took a bend a little too fast, the motion sliding him across the small space. He grunted with surprise when his hand touched another warm body.

"Hello?" he whispered thickly, glad beyond reason that they hadn't gagged him. The sound of the road under the car's wheels swallowed the words. He tried again, raising his voice. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Hello." A scared female voice whispered back. "You're the man from the road, aren't you?"

"I am. My name is Raylan Givens. I'm a deputy US marshal. You're the girl from the woods? What's your name?"

She shifted, bumping her knee against his thigh. There wasn't much space in the trunk. "I told you that you couldn't help me."

"Why were you running?" He rolled his head to the side, trying to ease the pain in his neck. His cheek scraped against the rough carpet.

"I escaped. They were cleaning house... loading us all into a horse trailer. One of the other girls got sick and distracted the guards. I waited until they weren't looking and just ran."

The car bumped onto a rougher road. Small stones bounced up, pinging from the underside of the car. Each impact made the girl jump. She reached for him, wrapping her hands around his. He stifled a gasp when she pressed a little too hard on his injured wrist.

"Why wouldn't you come with me?"

She drew back a fraction. "I didn't know if I could trust you. I saw the chief shoot that patrolman... and then you turned up. I thought you were working with him."

He tilted his head. "I never saw the chief. Where'd he go?"

"He sent his men into the woods to look for me. Someone called him, and he took off in his car." She laughed bitterly. "He was in that much of a hurry, he left his damn dog behind."

Something about her story didn't sit right with him. He forced it to the back of his mind, focusing on more important details. "How many girls are there?"

The air tasted warm and stale as he sucked in another breath. Sweat made his shirt cling to his back. The constant road noise grated on his nerves. Something squeaked by his head, adding another layer to the sounds.

She shrugged. He felt the movement though their joined hands. "I don't know. They don't keep us all in one place. I was at a hunting lodge with five others. They bring the men to us, then take them away when they're done."

The words send a bolt of ice through Raylan's gut. "He's running a human trafficking ring?"

"He brings girls in and forces them into prostitution," she murmured. "I'm one of the oldest. That's why they were getting rid of me. Some of the girls are barely teens."

Blind, helpless rage exploded through his mind. He sucked in a harsh breath and forced it back. "I'll put an end to this, I promise."

"How are you going to do that, lawman?" she asked "You're in worse shape than I am."

"I'll think of something." He braced himself and worked his thumbnail under the scab on his knuckle. It burned, but he kept at it until fresh blood ran down his finger.

She must have felt the movements. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving a sign we were here. Blood doesn't wash out easy. Someone might spot it."

He wiped his fingers on as many places as he could reach. The sound of tearing fabric made him jump.

"They'll kill you for this," she said, fumbling a bit of cloth around his hand and holding it there.

"Hell, they're gonna kill me anyway. Might as well give them a reason."

The car made another sharp turn, tires rumbling over a plank bridge. He held his breath as his stomach rolled again, rebelling against the motion.

"We're almost there. That bridge means we're going to the house I told you about," she whispered. "I'm scared."

He tightened his grip on her hand. "My boss will be looking for me. We just need to stay alive long enough so he can find us, okay?"

"They want to kill me." She sniffed hard, gulping back a sob. "I know they do."

"Then you have to give them a reason not to kill you."

"Like what?" she asked softly. "I have nothing to offer them that they haven't already taken."

He opened his mouth to reply, closing it when he couldn't think of anything helpful to say. "Let's just see what happens when we get there."

Distant voices broke through the constant hiss of tires on dry dirt. They didn't sound happy. He strained to make out the words, catching a few phrases here and there that just frustrated him more.

He braced himself as best he could as the car jerked to a halt. Sudden, bright light flooded the trunk as someone opened it. It made him close his eyes, turning his face away until his eyes adjusted.

"Well, hello again, Raylan," a familiar voice said. "Did you and your little friend have a good trip?"


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note-

Just wanted to say a big thank you for all the great reviews I've been getting for this story. I hope that it doesn't disappoint you. :) I should have at least one more chapter up today. I've been a bit mean here. ;)

Anyway, thanks for reading, and hope that you enjoy. :D

Lou

Chapter Seven

Art glanced at his watch, frowning, before reaching over to pick up the phone. He hit a speed dial button, draining that last of his coffee as he waited for the call to connect. The bitter liquid hit the back of his throat, making him pull a face. _Time to switch brands again,_ he thought and smiled a little, remembering his comment to Raylan the year before about the office coffee. Eight rings later, it went through to voicemail. A recorded voice told him to leave a message after the tone. He waited for the beep, suffering through instructions he'd heard too many times before. Seconds later, the tone beeped in his ear.

"Raylan? I need you to swing by the office when you're done at the clinic. Need to get that paperwork written up." He paused, tapping his fingers on the table. A pen rolled across the desk. He caught it and picked it up, twisting it in his hand. "Call me when you get this message. Thanks."

An uneasy feeling passed through him as he hung up the phone. He wrapped his fingers around the receiver again, then picked it up, dialling information. A polite female voice asked for his request. He told the woman the address and waited while she looked up the number. A few seconds later, he scribbled it on his jotter and ended the call.

He drew a box around it, shading the lines as he debated if he should call.

Tim knocked on the door, twin sheets of paper in his hand. He wore dark jeans with a pale shirt tucked into them. Art beckoned him in, attention still fixed on the hotel's number.

Tim stepped through the door, stopping in front of his boss' desk. He held the sheets up so Art could see them.

"We got that warrant. We pick him up anytime we like. Search warrant too, not that he'll have the stuff in his house now."

Art grunted. "About time that came through. Team getting ready?"

Tim nodded. "As we speak. They'll be ready in ten."

The phone rang. Art picked it up. "Hello?"

"Mr. Mullen. I'm a nurse with the wound clinic. One of your deputies had an appointment for today. He didn't turn up. I was hoping that I could get another number for him, re-schedule the visit." The nurse laughed. "Normally, we wouldn't bother to phone, but a couple of your men helped us out a while back when we were having problems with a drunk."

"I've been trying to reach him myself. Can I take your number? When I reach him, I'll get back to you."

"Of course," she said, and recited a number that he wrote down next to the one already on his jotter.

He read it back to her, checking that it was right.

"That's it. We don't close until seven." Someone called her name in the background. "Whoops, I have to go. Thanks!"

She hung up. Art slowly set the receiver back on to the phone, staring at it thoughtfully.

"What's up?" Tim asked, taking a seat. "You have that look."

"Raylan didn't turn up for his appointment at the clinic."

Tim rubbed his hands together, leaning forward. "You think something's up?"

"I do." Art sighed, and reached for the phone again. He dialled, listening as the call went to voicemail again. "His cell is going straight to voicemail."

"Have you tried his hotel? Maybe he turned his phone off to get some sleep," Tim suggested.

Art sighed and stood up. "I'll call him again when we get back from making this arrest. If he doesn't answer then I'll ring the hotel."

Art opened a cupboard and took out his bulletproof vest. He slid his shoulder holster into place, snapping it to his belt. He grabbed his jacket and opened the door.

Tim followed his boss out of the office. "We're all meeting in the garage. The entry team are driving the bus."

"They'll take the lead on this one. God knows what that nutjob has stashed in his house. How many times has he been busted for weapons charges now?"

Tim glanced at the papers in his hands. "More than once," he said distractedly. "Eh, six times now. This makes lucky seven."

Rachel met them at the elevator, already dressed in her bulletproof vest. She smiled. "Heard about the warrant I see?"

Art laughed dryly. "Any excuse to get out of that office and away from the paperwork. Damn stuff breeds when you're not looking at it, I swear."

The elevator arrived. They stepped in, all falling quiet as they focused on what was coming.

"It's not going to be an easy arrest, is it?" Rachel asked.

"Not many of them are," Art muttered.

"Well, we can always shoot him if he won't play nicely." Tim joked, turning a coin between his fingers.

The elevator reached the ground floor, bumping a little as it settled. The doors opened slowly. Art stepped through them in the lead. "Let's go get this bastard."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Evening, chief," Raylan drawled as two thugs hauled him out of the trunk. "I see you've got yourself a doctor. 'Course, I imagine she's a tad more used to working with dead people, her being the county coroner and all." He smiled at the dark-haired woman. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The blow staggered him, almost taking him to his knees. Only the painfully tight grip of the thugs' hands on his arms kept him upright. He wiped his lip on his shoulder, spitting out the blood inside of his mouth. A small pain pricked his arm. He ignored it, figuring it was an insect bite.

The chief pointed to the smaller of the thugs. "You, take the girl inside. Put her somewhere on her own. I don't want her filling the other's heads with bullshit about escaping."

He grinned and leaned closer to the girl, grabbing her chin with one hand. He used the other to run his gun down her cheek. "You should know by now sweetheart, there is no escape. I'll always find you and bring you back."

She twisted away from him, going utterly still as he clicked the safety off his gun. "I'd shoot you right here if I didn't have a client lined for you. Clean yourself up. You're entertainin' tonight."

Silent tears raced down her face as the thug dragged her towards the house. Raylan watched her go, rage burning through him with such force he shook with it. He let out a harsh breath.

"Why are you doin' this?" he asked the shorter man. "Can't see much in it for you."

"Why does anyone do anything, Raylan?" The chief grinned. "It's all about the money."

"I'll drug her, keep her nice and quiet for you," the coroner offered, wrapping her arm around the chief's. "Would you like that, Nick?"

The chief kissed her. "I'd like that very much, sweetie."

She smiled, walking towards the house, a sway in her gait that suggested she knew the chief was watching every step.

"So what now, chief Nick?" Raylan asked.

The chief ignored the question, nodding at two of his men. "Take him inside. Tie him up. I'll deal with him later."

_Well, isn't this fun,_ Raylan thought as he was dragged roughly towards a the hunting lodge. He stumbled over a rock, legs suddenly weak. The thug on his right yanked on his arm, pulling him forward.

"Damn, that stuff works real quick," the thug said. "We won't have any problem with this one."

"You drugged me?" Raylan asked, swallowing dryly. The insides of his mouth felt like it was stuffed with tinder dry cotton.

"Yup." The thug shoved the door open. "Chief didn't want any trouble with you. Thinks you might be worth good money to him."

The hallway was too narrow for the three of them to walk abreast. The bigger of the thugs went first, opening a door. Raylan stumbled down the step into the room, legs feeling like they belonged to someone else.

They shoved him onto a chair, slamming his arms down on the wooden arms of the chair. Familiar pain roared through him, pushing the fog from the drug back a little.

"This the first time you've been held hostage, lawman?" one of the thugs asked as they tightened the rope around Raylan's arms.

"Nope," he answered, thinking of a plantation a million miles away from that dark, dank little room. "Didn't end so well for the last man who tied me up. Sure you want to do this?"

They both laughed. "Hell, yes. Ain't every day we get to mess up a lawman."

He leaned back, feeling the drugs wash through him, taking a stronger grip. "So that's how it's gonna be?"

The dark-haired thug slapped him around the back of the head. "Did ya really expect anything different?"

Darkness filled the room as one of the chief's men slammed the door, throwing a wicked looking knife onto the table next to Raylan's chair.

The thug pulled his hand back and landed a solid punch to Raylan's stomach. The taller man leaned forward as far as the rope would allow, retching from the blow. A kick landed on his knee, wrenching a pained grunt from his lips.

Motion caught Raylan's attention, and he turned his head quickly enough so that the blow meant for his nose landed on his cheek instead. It split the skin, sending blood trickling down his face.

The door opened, spilling murky light into the room. "Stop it." A female voice said. "I have something that will work so much better."

Both thugs stepped away, taking up posted next to the door. "Yes, Miss Napper."

She walked over, stopping in front of the chair. Raylan blinked, trying to focus on her. She touched his cheek, wiping away blood. "You're so very pretty. It's such a shame to mark you up like this."

"Then untie me and let me go," he rasped. "You might reach the boarder before I send the cops after you."

She laughed and laid a plastic case down on the table. "Keep dreaming, lawman. The only way you're getting out of here is in the trunk of a car with a bullet in your head."

He watched warily as she pulled a syringe from the bag. She set it on the table and reached for the knife, using it to split his sleeve so she could get to his skin. The blade nicked his skin, drawing a few small beads of blood. It dried quickly in the too-warm room. She tied an elastic strap around his arm to raise his veins and drew a dose of the drug into the syringe.

"Now, I'd say this won't hurt, but that'd be a lie." The needle pricked his skin. Burning pain shot up his arm as she injected the clear liquid.

"What was that?" he whispered thickly. A wave of dizziness crashed over him. He fought to keep his eyes open as the room spun slowly around him.

She dropped the used syringe back onto the table. "Oh, it's a little cocktail that I had a friend make for me. You won't be able to resist. In a couple of minutes, you'll do anything we want you to." She leaned closer, patting his cheek. "Now, try not to fight it, okay? That just makes it work more quickly."

The door opened again. He looked up, eyes widening with horror as he saw the girl from the woods standing in the doorway and realised what they were planning.

"I won't do it," he said desperately, jerking at the ropes that bound him. "I won't."

The coroner leaned closer, whispering against his ear. "Darlin', in a little while, you'll do anything we tell you to."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note-

I'm sorry if this isn't as good as the last chapters have been. I've been fighting a migraine all day, so I'm not at my best.

Anyway, hope you enjoy.

(Yes, I am evil. xD)

Chapter Nine

A black and red bug crawled down his arm. Art flicked it away, and watched it scuttle up the wall he was crouching behind. Tim knelt next to him, one knee touching the floor. Rachel met Art's eyes from the other side of the gate. They waited as the entry team rushed past, black clad bodies strangely silent.

Art glanced over the wall, studying the scrubby yard. The entry team reached the house. A quick hand gesture from the team leader sent three of the men to watch the back exit. Two men stepped forward, using a battering ram to smash open the door. Shards of wood flew into the air as the door caved in.

They rushed into the house, guns raised. For a long moment, barked commands filled the quiet street. Booted footsteps tramped down the porch stairs.

"All clear, Art." The team leader yelled. "We got him. Piece of cake."

Art eased to his feet, sliding his gun into his holster. "Told ya you should have let me go first."

The black clad man laughed. "Not worth my hide if some dirt bag plugs you. You know that."

"Thanks, Scott." Art walked towards the house, stepping around a rusty metal rake laid actoss the path. "Nice job."

Rachel nudged a broken brick aside with her booted foot. "Cheerful looking place, isn't it?" she muttered.

They skirted around the rotting carcass of a truck. A cat hissed at them from underneath it, taking off for the undergrowth in a blur of grey and black fur.

"I've seen worse," Tim muttered back. "Believe me. At least this has a roof."

They reached the porch stairs. The team leader eased back into the house to let them pass. "One at a time, folks. Those steps aren't too sturdy." He held out a hand towards Rachel. "Ladies' first?"

She raised an eyebrow but took his hand, entering the house. The stench of rotting things forced her to stifle a cough.

"Did he just call us fat?" Tim asked. "Boss, do you think I'm fat?"

Art chuckled but chose not to answer the question, walking lightly up the stairs instead. He stopped in the hallway, looking around. "Guess the maid hasn't visited for a while."

Tim stepped in behind him. "Does he have a dead body stashed in here?"

"More than one, given the smell," Scott chuckled. "Think this is bad, you should smell the bathroom."

Tim shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I think I can live without inhaling that."

Scott led the way towards the living room. Halfway there, they could hear shouting. "Hey, dickhead, don't touch my stuff!" A high-pitched male voice yelled." "Get the hell off that, jerk!"

They squeezed through a doorway made narrow by the cardboard boxes piled next to it.

Three black clad men stood in the room, guarding the small, bony man sitting on a blue over-stuffed chair that had seen much better days.

"Mr. Arnold, my name is Art Mullen. I'm with the US Marshal service. We're here to take you back into custody for parole violations. We have a warrant to search your house for guns."

They bony man turned to look at Art. He wore a dirty white tank top, baggy underpants and mismatched socks. "Ain't no guns here, Mr. US Marshal."

"You were seen bringing weapons into this house, Mr. Arnold. We know they're somewhere in here," Art said. "Now, we can do this the easy way- you tell us exactly where they are, or we can do it the hard way and tear this place apart."

"I ain't telling you anything, dog turd." Mr. Arnold smirked. "'Course, you gotta watch out for my little surprises..." he drew the last word out, beady eyes fixed on Art's face.

"Sir, what do you mean by surprises?" Rachel asked. She took a step away from the boxes clustered by the wall.

Mr. Arnold grinned widely, showing teeth that were rotting out of his head. "The kind that go ker-boom, of course."

Tim tilted his head. "Did you just admit to placing bombs in your own home?"

"I think that he did," Art agreed. "Tim, Rachel, take our guest here out to the car. I'm sure the folks at Big Sandy will be delighted to have him back."

"Aw, hell, man." Mr. Arnold whined. "You can't do this. It ain't fair."

Tim grabbed his arm. "You did it to yourself when you told us you have explosives hidden in the house."

They made their way to the door. Art turned and followed them. "Scott?"

"I'm pulling my men out, 'till we get the all clear from the bomb folks." He nodded at the men still in the room. They moved past him smoothly, easing out of the door.

"You think the little shit is telling the truth?" Art asked, taking a deep breath as they reached the porch again.

"Damn if I know. It's his style though." Scott shrugged. "Just not willing to risk it." He paused at the top of the stairs to tape the door closed. "Have to get someone to sit on it until the bomb dogs can work it."

They reached the road. Art headed off towards his car, signing off on the paperwork. He handed it to Tim. "Here. Go get him a bunk."

Tim took it and got back into the car. He wound the window down. "Any word from Raylan?" he asked.

Art shook his head. "Nothing yet. I'll call him."

Tim nodded. "Okay."

He started the engine and made a neat U-turn, driving out of the street.

Scott watched as Art dialled a number on his phone, pacing a small circle as he waited for it to connect. The call went to voicemail again. Art left another message, the hung up.

"How's your deputy, by the way?" Scott asked as he un-snapped his body armour. "I heard about what happened."

"I don't know." Art held up his phone. "I've been trying to reach him, but he's not answering any calls. Keep getting voicemail."

Scott tossed his armour into the back of his truck. "You want a ride?"


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note-

Thanks for all the well wishes. I've been feeling much better today. :) This one is a little longer than normal. Hopefully, I'll get another one up too. This story is taking off on me! (I love that feeling. :D It's such a rush when the stories take on a life of their own and demand to be written!)

Lou

Chapter Ten

_Sharp branches and stones tore at his bare feet as he ran through the woods, arms up as he tried desperately to protect his face. Branches lashed against him as he ran. Thorny shrubs grabbed and ripped his skin. The scents of bruised leaves and wet earth mixed with blood from his body. _

_A large, hollow log gave him a place to pause for a second, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Water tinkled off to his left, and he crawled out of the log, running towards the small creek. It told him how far into the woods he'd ran. _

_He crawled into the log, wrapping his arms around his knees, making himself as small as he could. A branch snapped underfoot in the woods outside. He tucked his head onto his knees, trying not to hear the footsteps that were drawing closer. _

"_Raylan..." The log rocked as something slammed into it. "I know you're out here, son."_

_He bolted from the log, that voice driving him forward, heedless of anything but the desperate need to get away... to escape that voice. Blind, naked fear drove him on, running wildly into the woods._

_A stone turned under his foot, pitching him headlong into the steep ravine. Pain roared through his body as rocks slammed against him. He landed with a thump in the sludgy water, limbs trembling with exhaustion. A pebble bounced down the ravine._

_He sucked in a breath that burned in his lungs, searching the banks with haunted eyes. The setting sun outlined the figure standing on the ridge. _

"_I told you, Raylan," the man said as he climbed down the bank. _

_He crawled backwards, forcing his exhausted limbs to move. Cold, calloused hands closed on his arm, dragging him back..._

Warm hands on his face jerked him awake. He scrambled backwards, brain trying to reconcile the different sensations. His pulse beat loudly in his ears. A headache pounded behind his eyes. He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing his heart to slow, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room.

The girl from the woods huddled next to the wall. A chain ran from a cuff around her ankle to a heavy bracket fixed in the floor. It had left drag marks in the dust where she had moved. A spill of pale moonlight washed over her, making her blonde hair glow like spun gold. She looked up and met his eyes.

"I thought you'd never wake up," she whispered. "I'm sorry if I scared you." Her voice sounded odd- thick, choked by something other than tears.

He licked his lips. "This isn't the same room we were in before." His voice came out low, and hoarse. He rolled onto his side, studying the room.

"They moved us while you were out. That bitch gave you something else."

A rickety bed took up most of the space. One corner was piled with old bedding and towels. Something furry moved in the shadows. He caught a glance of a long tail as the rat ducked back into its hole.

She rolled a bottle of water towards him. "It's okay. It's not drugged. The seal is still on it. They give us it on a night."

He opened the bottle and sipped from it slowly. It hit his empty stomach hard, filling him with nausea. The sickness faded after a few more sips. "Thanks."

She toasted him with her own bottle. "They'll bring burgers in the morning. It's the only time they feed us."

His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten a meal. "You seem to know the routine pretty well."

Slivers of paper dotted her legs as she picked at the label on her bottle. "I've been here for almost six months." She shrugged. "I've had plenty of time to learn how they do things."

He fastened the cap back onto his bottle and tried to sit up. Pain speared through him like a lance, stopping him halfway. A long, thick chain tethered him to the floor, just like the girl. The cuff fastened around his injured wrist. It had worn through the bandages in places. Blood tricked from his torn skin.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"Almost a full day," she whispered. "The chief isn't very happy. Your boss keeps calling your cell phone."

That made him smile. "I thought he might be looking for me."

The door grated open, spilling pale yellow light into the room. It splashed over the girl. Raylan sucked in an agonised breath when he saw the damage to her body. Dark, knotted bruises covered her arms and legs. A gash took up the space between her eyebrow and hairline. Her lip was spilt and puffy.

Weary self-disgust filled him. _I always knew this'd happen one day,_ he thought, almost flinching when she leaned closer to him.

She caught his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "It wasn't you. You didn't hurt me. I promise," she whispered with desperate strength. "Remember that, no matter what they tell you."

He searched her eyes, seeing no fear there, just pain and frantic hope. Carefully, he reached up and touched a bruise on her cheek with a shaking finger. "They did this because of me."

The door creaked a little further open. A raucous laugh drifted into the room.

"No. They did it because they are very bad people who like to make others suffer." She grabbed his hand as he let it drop.

Heavy footsteps made both of them turn towards the door. The chief stood in the doorway, framed by the light. "Aw, ain't this sweet. You're getting all cosy."

He nodded to one of his men, who grabbed the girl by the arm and yanked her away from Raylan. Another man brought in a pair of heavy wooden chairs and set them down in the middle of the room. The chief dropped into one.

"Get him up," he said.

Two men grabbed Raylan by his arms and hauled him to his feet. He swung a punch at the taller man's head, pulling up short when the sound of a shotgun being cocked echoed around the room.

One of the chief's men pointed the gun at the girl's head. She curled up into a ball, hands held out as if they could stop the shot. Soundless tears slid down her face, reflecting the light.

"Now, Raylan, don't be stupid," the chief said. "Try anything like that again, and I'll blow her fucking head off."

Raylan stared at the gun, every muscle taut as his self-control battled with the rage tearing through him. Self-control won. He stared at the chief with open hatred. "What do you want?"

The chief kicked the chair towards Raylan. "I want you to sit your ass down."

The taller man dropped into the chair, keeping his eyes fixed on the chief's face. The portly man pulled out a silver revolver and held it up so Raylan could see it. "This was my Grand-Daddy's. He killed his first man with it."

"I'm sure he remembers that day very fondly," Raylan said darkly, a thread of anger burning though his words. "I like a semi-auto myself. More accurate."

The chief laughed and thumbed a bullet into the cylinder on the side of the gun. "Game I want to play, it doesn't have to be accurate." He pointed the muzzle of the gun at Raylan's head. "Feeling lucky today?"

Raylan sucked in a short breath. "One in six. Those ain't odds I like much." The muscles over his shoulders were hard with strain. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

The chief laughed and closed his finger on the trigger. A short, dry click filled the suddenly silent room. "One in five now." He squeezed the trigger again. The gun clicked on another empty chamber. "Tsk... Now we're at one in four. Think I should stop?"

Raylan looked at him, eyes hard. "What do you want?" His voice came out ice-cold.

The older man handed him a sheet of paper with a few lines typed on it. "I want you to phone your God-dammed boss and read that to him. Tell him you're going out of town for a while. Get him to stop phoning you."

Raylan read the words with a sinking heart. "Okay. Give me the phone."

The chief grabbed Raylan's cell from the man next to him. "No secret codes... no clever stuff. Just read what I've typed there, or the girl gets it, understand?"

"Sure," Raylan muttered, and dialled the number. It rang a few times before Art answered. "Art? It's Raylan. I know you've been trying to reach me. Look, I'm heading down to my folk's place for a few days. I've been wanting to catch up with my father for a while now." He paused, listening, hoping that Art would understand the message. "Okay. I'll ring when I get back."

The chief snatched the phone from Raylan's hand, ending the call. He slammed a blow into the taller man's gut. "That wasn't what I told you to say!"

Raylan coughed and gestured weakly to the paper which had dropped to the floor. "I couldn't say that. He knows I hate fishing. Would've tipped him off."

The chief stared at him, eyes drilling into Raylan's. The taller man met his gaze without flinching, knowing that more than his life depended on it. A few seconds passed before the chief swung another blow at Raylan, knocking him off the chair. He landed on the floor with a painful thump, ribs screaming from the impact.

"Get out, all of you," the chief barked. "We're going. Leave them both here to rot."

The men cleared out. The chief slammed the door behind him, throwing up a choking cloud of dust. Raylan stared at the girl. She met his eyes as a bolt scraped into place on the other side of the door.

"Now what?" she asked quietly.

Raylan closed his eyes and sighed. "Now we wait."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Art walked briskly through the quiet office. The day was growing late. Rachel and Tim still sat at their desks, finishing paperwork. A few other marshals clustered at the other end of the room, trading details of their day. Art pulled up a chair and sat down in between the desks.

"We have a situation," he said quietly, without preamble. "I have reason to believe that Raylan is being held hostage somewhere."

Rachel sucked in a shocked breath, hand tightening around her pen. Tim raised his eyebrows. He leaned towards eyes, eyes dark and serious. "Why do you think that?" he asked.

"Because I just had a phone call from him, telling me he was going to visit his Daddy. That sound like the man you know?"

Both of them shook their heads.

"No, I didn't think so, either," Art muttered. He moved the chair a little closer to the desks. He didn't want the news to spread too quickly. _You never know who is listening,_ he thought.

"What can we do?" Rachel asked.

"I need you to put out an APB on his car. I don't expect that his cell will be turned on, but set up a trace in case it does get switched on," Art said. "I'm going to give his folks a call, in case he turns up down there." He sighed. "I really hope he does turn up down there."

He stood and walked back towards his office, liberating his bottle of bourbon from the safe. Glass clicked on glass as he poured himself a stiff drink. He swallowed it in one gulp, pouring himself a second before changing his mind and screwing the cap back onto the bottle.

Rachel knocked at the door. "APB is out. Tim is setting up the trace. Let's hope someone turns his phone on."

"Just for a few minutes." Art shook his head. "I turned in an old favour from a friend. There have been girls going missing from all over the state. No bodies have been found, so the local police just assumed the girls ran away."

"You don't think that they did?"

"No," Art spread a map on the table. He pointed to a curve of road. "This is where the patrolman was shot. Raylan saw a blonde girl in the woods here too." He checked something, then slid his finger across the map. "This is the logging road. The cabin where Shelley Decosta's body was found is just off it."

"Lots of old cabins and mines in that area." Rachel said. "It would be pretty easy to hide a body. Or hold someone hostage. Lots of empty woods. No-one around to hear anything."

Their eyes met across the map. "The dogs searched when we found the body. They didn't find any tracks."

Rachel sighed. "They were in a truck. The ground is too stony to hold a tire print, and they knew the dogs wouldn't be able to follow them."

Art nodded. "That's what I think too."

Tim entered the office. "The trace is up." He stuck his hands into his jeans pockets. "I had to call in a favour to get it does this quickly."

The phone rang. Three pairs of eyes fixed on it. Art reached over and picked the handset up, shaking his head after a few seconds. Tim and Rachel slumped, torn between relief and worry.

Art finished his call. "Mr. Arnold just put another inmate in hospital. Knocked him down and tried to choke him."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think the little bastard had it in him."

"Me either. He seemed kinda puny in the car." Rachel shook her head. "Is the other inmate going to be okay?"

Art shrugged. "They don't know yet."

"It'll keep him out of our hair for a while, at least." Tim said.

Art made a sound of agreement, then fell quiet. Then room fell into an uneasy silence as they all contended with their thoughts. The phone rang again. Art snatched it up, knowing it was foolish to get his hopes up for an answer so quickly.

"Art Mullen," he said tiredly. "Oh, hello chief."

He talked for a few more minutes, getting information before setting the phone down grimly. "That was the police chief. They've found Raylan's car. It's in a lake, just west of where the patrolman was shot dead."

Tim frowned. "That seems really fast."

Art lifted an eyebrow. "I know. I'm starting to wonder if our police chief knows something that we don't."

Rachel smoothed her hair. "You think he's involved?" she asked.

Art stood and picked up his gun. "Let's go ask him."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Art parked the car and turned off the engine, spending a moment looking out of the window at the scene in front of him. A tow truck was backed up to the lake, chains running down the bank to a dark shape in the water. Patrol cars and an ambulance were parked on the side of the road. Their blue and red lights threw splashes of colour over the gathering.

"There's the chief," Tim said, and pointed towards the portly figure. "Looks like he's phoning someone."

Rachel gathered the camera and other equipment from the back seat. "Want us to get some details?"

Art nodded. "Yup. Follow procedure. The chief won't like it. Don't listen to him."

"Okay," Rachel said, and slipped out of the car. Tim followed her, leaving Art alone in the quiet.

He sat for a long second, heart heavy. _Maybe Raylan really did want to see his folks. Maybe he passed out and ran his car off the road here,_ he thought, not convinced. _Something about this just doesn't feel right. _He shook his head and got out of the car, heading towards the chief.

Tim knocked on the tow truck's door, startling the driver. The man wound his window down and leaned out.

"Can I help you?" The driver drawled. "Got a job to do here, son."

Tim flashed his badge. "I'm a deputy US marshal. I need to you leave the car where it is for now. We need to study the scene."

The man bit down on a toothpick and leaned closer to Tim. "That right?" He studied Tim's badge. "And here I thought the US marshal service left investigating crime scenes to the real police."

"I'm just following orders, sir." Tim braced a hand on the truck and leaned towards the driver. "We believe that one of our collegues was driving that car."

The driver raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

Tim nodded. "Yes, sir. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that to yourself."

The driver turned his engine off. "Well, alright, son." He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Just wake me when you need something towing."

Tim walked away. Splashes of muddy water landed on his jeans, soaking through to his skin. He ignored it and jogged to catch up with Rachel. She was already by the side of the lake, camera in her hand as she took photos of the skid marks.

She shot a glance at Tim, then flicked her eyes to a nearby patrolman. The patrolman drifted a little closer to them, straining to hear what they were saying. Tim raised his eyebrows then nodded, content to play along.

"Looks like he never even tried to brake," Rachel muttered, zooming in closer to the tracks.

"Maybe he passed out. Couple of nasty wounds like that, he shouldn't have really been driving." Tim prepared a frame, laying it over the tracks to get a cast.

Heavy footsteps made him look up. The chief scrambled down the bank with Art following behind. Neither of them looked very happy.

"What are you doing to my crime scene?" the chief barked.

Tim snuck a glance at Art, who nodded. He poured a little more impression material into the frame, tapping the metal lightly to knock out any air bubbles.

"Feels like you don't trust me, Art." The chief forced a mirthless laugh.

Art moved up next to him, shrugging. "It's just procedure, chief. You know that."

"I know, I know." The chief groused. "You gotta dot all the T's and cross all the I's."

Rachel snapped another photo, then let the camera drop, hanging from its strap around her neck. "I'm done with the photos."

"Does this happen often?" Art asked.

The chief hooked a thumb through his belt loop. "Yeah... we get a few cars going off this bend a year." He shrugged. "Folks drive drunk... tired... they lose concentration, miss the turn. Next thing they know, the car is in the lake, filling up with water."

Rachel shifted her weight. "They survive long?" She nodded towards the lake. "Water looks cold."

The chief let out a long breath that steamed in the air. "You asking me if I expect to find your colleague alive?"

She held his eyes. "Yes, that's what I'm asking."

The stout man shrugged again. "Night like this? Car's been in there long enough to settle..." he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't think he has much chance."

A beat of silence hung over the small group. Art broke it. "Well, let's pull the car out. Might as well see what we have."

Tim jogged up the bank to wake the tow truck driver. The older man started the engine, easing the truck forward as the chains took up the slack. Foot by foot, he let the tow truck creep forward, pulling the submerged car onto the bank.

It only took a few minutes to drag it free of the water. They stood back, letting it drain. A fish flopped onto the dirt road. Art scooped it up and tossed it back into the water. The chief shot him a look.

Art shrugged. "No reason to let it die."

"I never said there was." The chief muttered. "I think it's about drained, now."

They approached the car. Rachel snapped pictures as she walked, camera catching a smear of something dark and rusty on the driver's seat. "This looks like blood," she called out, taking a close up of it.

"Well, I'll be damned." The chief muttered. "First time I've seen a blood stain survive under water for that long."

"It wasn't under water. There's some kind of plastic wrapped around the seat. That's what protected it," Tim said. "Looks like that stuff you use in the kitchen."

"What?" The chief leaned closer, peering into the car. "Well, look at that! Why would he wrap his own car seat?"

"That's a very good question," Art muttered. "I have a better one, though. Where's the body?"

The chief pointed to the windscreen. "Glass has been shot out. Looks like he made it out of the car. Could be in the lake somewhere, still." He reached for his radio. "I've got men out searching. I'll get them to check the shore lines." The chief walked off to the top of the bank, radio held up to his mouth.

Art nodded to Rachel and Tim. "Take the photos back to the office. I'll follow you back."

Rachel paused. "What are you going to do?"

Art smiled grimly. "I'm gonna keep an eye on that lying son of a bitch there. He knows something he's not telling us."

"You think this was a set up?"

Art reached into the car and pulled out a brick that had jammed the gas pedal to the floor. "I think it was," he said grimly.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Raylan shifted his shoulders against the wall, trying to ease the growing ache in his spine. He sighed, watching his breath steam in the air. Pain throbbed in his fingers and toes as the cold air nipped at his skin. He wrapped his arms more tightly around his body to conserve as much heat as he could.

The clouds parted a little outside. Pale moonlight flooded into the room, spilling over the girl. She was curled on her side, one arm tucked under her head. A shiver passed through her and she drew her legs tighter to her stomach.

He reached over and touched her arm lightly.

Her eyes flew open. She started, scooting backwards before she caught herself and halted the movement. "What's wrong?" She looked over at the door. "Are they coming back?"

Raylan shook his head. "It's getting colder. We need to share our body heat or we're not going to survive the night." He moved away from the corner of the room, pointing at the small space. "Come and lay down here. It's warmer, I think."

She watched him with wary eyes. "Okay," she muttered at last, as another shiver shook her slender body. "Hang on. I saw something..."

He watched as she stumbled to her feet, digging around beside the bed.

She made a pleased sound and turned, holding up a long jacket. "It's not much, but we can cover ourselves with it."

He smiled. "I think you just saved our lives."

Dust rose into the air as she dropped gracelessly into the corner of the room. "Are we going to get out of here?" Her voice sounded very small and scared in the dark. She reached for him, curling her hands around his arm.

"We'll wait 'till morning, see what we have to work with. No use trying anything in the dark." He shook the coat out over their bodies. It covered only a little bit of them. Raylan patted the pockets out of long habit, not really expecting to find anything. A small, rectangular shape shifted under his fingertips. "Hmm..."

She moved her head. "What? What is it?"

"I don't know." He worked his hand into the pocket, drawing out a small gas lighter. "This is good."

She covered his hand with hers. "A lighter?"

"We can make a fire." Hope leapt in his chest. He thumbed the wheel, watching the tiny flame glow in the dark. The warmth from it felt like a bonfire. "We need something to set it in."

He pushed the coat aside, covering the girl with it, and stood, stretching muscles stiff from the cold and the abuse. Carefully, he stepped forward, moving towards the bed. The heavy chain dragged behind him, holding him back.

"I think there was an old metal barrel in the corner," The girl said.

Raylan took another step in that direction. The clouds had started to cover the moon again, and the room was growing darker. His foot hit something solid and hollow. He bent, reaching for it.

His fingers touched something warm and furry. The rat jerked under his touch, squealing as it raced away from him. He jerked back, so startled that he almost lost his footing. The lighter dropped from his fingers, landing with a bounce on the floor.

"Shit!" he cursed, grabbing the bucket and rolling it towards the girl.

"Please tell me you didn't drop it," she said.

"Wish I could," he muttered, and knelt, running his hands carefully over the floor. A wadded mass of paper rolled away from his fingers. He grabbed it and set it near the wall.

"Brilliant," she said sarcastically. "Want me to help you look for it?"

He shook his head, then realised she wouldn't be able to see it. "Nope. Find something to put in that bucket to burn."

She crawled towards the other end of the room. "Lots of wood scraps on this floor. They'll burn nice."

His hand closed on something made of cold metal. He sucked in a startled breath.

"What did you find?" she asked. "Not another rat?"

"No." He pulled it closer, tucking it through his belt. "I just found a gun."

She threw a large chunk of wood in the direction of the bucket. It landed on the floor with a hollow bang. "This seem awfully convenient to you?"

He swept his hands over another area of floor, grabbing a piece of loose floorboard and yanking it free. "I think if the chief wanted us dead, we'd be in a mine shaft with a bullet in our heads right now. We're still useful to him."

She closed her hand on a small metal object. "I think I have it!" she said, fumbling the top open and lighting a flame. "What about the gun?"

He walked back towards the corner. "Could be empty."

"You can't tell?" she dropped a few slivers of wood into the bucket, dropping some of the paper on top. The flame caught easily, spreading through the kindling and into the larger bits of wood.

"I'd rather not take chances." He leaned against the wall, shifting a little as she curled up against him.

The small fire made the cold more bearable. With the coat spread over them, it was almost comfortable.

"Maybe the chief didn't leave it," the girl said quietly. "Maybe one of the others left this stuff for us."

Raylan ran his hands over the gun. "Maybe." He found the clip release and thumbed it, letting the magazine drop into his hand. Light reflected on the metal as he leaned forward, counting. "It's fully loaded."

She tucked her head against his shoulder. "Good. Shoot that son-of-a-bitch in the balls when he comes back," she muttered drowsily.

"This doesn't make sense," he thought aloud, leaning back against the wall, trying to make all the pieces fit. He stared at the darkness for a long time, thinking, before letting sleep claim him.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

He had the gun up and aimed before the sleep had cleared from his eyes. Instinct had it fixed on the middle of the door; training had his finger hovering on the trigger, one muscle tense away from firing. The gun felt steady in his hands. _You never did have a problem using one of these,_ he thought, mocking himself.

A shower of dust rained down the wall as the person shoved the door further open. The frame had warped out of shape, jamming the door halfway.

"Who is it?" he shouted. "Come in slowly, and let me see your hands."

A pair of feminine hands cleared the edge of the door. "I'm here to help," she said, easing her body into the room.

"You're working with him," Raylan said. "How is that helping, Doc?"

The coroner sat gingerly on the bed, keeping her hands in plain sight. "Who do you think left you the gun? The coat and the lighter?" She jerked her thumb at her own chest. "It was me, okay? I knew you'd never survive without them!"

Raylan let the gun down, resting it on his lap as he studied her. "You really wanna help, you'll let us go."

She shook her head. "I don't have the keys." Her pretty face twisted with disgust. "The chief has them, locked up in his safe. There's no way for me to get them."

"Why?" The girl asked, peering out from the coat. "Why are you doing this? You drugged us... me." Tears coursed down her cheeks. "I couldn't resist, even when they made me do things that..." Her voice broke completely. She sniffed hard, swiping the tears from her face with short, angry motions.

"I'm so sorry..." The dark haired woman whispered. "I'm as much a victim as you are. I had no choice." She closed her eyes, blinking away tears. "I thought I was helping you. I really did!"

Raylan tilted his head. "Bullshit."

The older woman blinked. "Excuse me?"

Stiffly, Raylan stood, nudging the fire bucket out of the way with his toe. The scent of soot drifted through the air. "You really wanted to help, you would have told someone what was going on in this backwoods hell hole."

"He... he said he'd kill me!" She protested and stood up, wrapping her arms around herself.

"How many lives did you trade away for yours?" Raylan asked, voice hard and cold with anger. It burned in his eyes like a wildfire waiting for the right wind to explode. "How many girls did you hide when they came through your morgue? I'm betting there's a whole load of them, because you were too spineless to do anything about it!"

She backed away as he stalked forward, only stopping when the chain forced him too.

"Please! It's not like that!" she held her hands up, face pale with horror. "He has my mother. He's holding her so I'll work with him, clean his mess up." Her voice broke. She paused, swallowing the tears. "He lets me see her every week. If I stop helping him, he'll kill her."

Raylan stared at her. She stared back, holding his eyes even as tears fell down her cheeks.

He looked away first, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. "You're telling me the truth?"

Trembling, she nodded. "Yes. I swear it. I'd swear it on the bible if I had one."

He held out a hand to her. "Give me your cell phone."

She dug it out of her pocket and handed it over. "It won't work out here. God knows, I've tried enough times."

Raylan check the screen, frowning when he saw she was telling the truth. "There must be old tools left in here. Bolt cutters... a pry bar. Something. See what you can find."

Lips pressed together, she nodded and left the room.

The girl watched from the corner. "You shouldn't trust her."

Raylan gave her a sideways glance, attention mostly on the phone in his hand. "I don't."

The girl blew out a sigh and sat up, crossing her legs under the coat. "My name is Hope Seaberg," she said. "I'm seventeen. Before I came here, I lived in Somerset with my Mom."

That jerked his attention away from the phone. "Why are you telling me this now, Hope?" He asked.

"Because I have a feeling she's going to come back through that door with a gun. You'll shoot her before she gets us... maybe." She shrugged, sadly. "I didn't want to die without someone here knowing my name."

He smiled at her. "You're not going to die."

Desperate, she grabbed his shirt. "Don't listen to her. She's playing you. I've seen her do this before."

Raylan glanced down at her, confused. "I don't trust her, and yes, I bet she is playing us somewhere in this, but we need to get out of here before tonight, and she's our best chance." Footsteps drew closer to the room. "She's coming back. Just work with me, okay?"

Hope nodded. "No, it's not okay!"

Raylan crouched, tucking the phone into his shirt pocket so he could lay a hand on her shoulder. "I'll shoot her if she does anything I don't like."

Trembling, Hope nodded. "Okay."

More dust rained onto the floor as the coroner wedged herself through the door again. She held up a rusty pair of bolt cutters. "Will these work?"

Grim, Raylan nodded. "They'll have to work. Do the girl first."

The dark haired woman crossed the small room in a few long steps. She caught a link of chain in the blades of the bolt cutters and leaned on the long handles, throwing all of her weight into the effort. The chain creaked, but held. Panting, red in the face, she stepped back.

"I'm not strong enough."

Raylan handed the phone to Hope, using his good hand to add his weight to the bolt cutters. Nothing seemed to happen at first.

"It's splitting!" Hope called excitedly. "Just a bit more!"

They leaned harder on the long handles, throwing every ounce of strength they had into it. The chain broke suddenly with an explosive crack. The sudden lack of force pitched Raylan forward. He dropped to one knee on the floor, barely avoiding crashing into the wall. Pain tore though his shoulder. Warm wetness let him know something had broken open.

He gritted his teeth, riding the pain until it started to fade. A small touch on his leg brought him back to the room.

"I told you," Hope muttered unhappily.

Raylan looked up to see the coroner pointing the muzzle of a shiny, well-maintained gun at his head. He stared up at her. "You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you, would you?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Nope." He moved so he was blocking her shot at Hope. "Uh-huh. Stay still, pretty boy."

"Why'd you let her free?" Raylan asked. "Is it all part of your plan?"

The dark-haired woman smiled. "I'm gonna shoot her in the head with that gun you've so helpfully got your prints all over and dump her body near your hotel room. Everyone will think you killed her."

"And me?" Raylan tilted his head. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Aw, pretty boy." She shook her head. "You know you're never going to leave this room alive."

He nodded, accepting that. He closed his eyes, coming to a decision. "Hope?"

She touched his back. "Yes?"

"When you get chance, run."

"Huh?" She gasped. "Shoot her!"

He shook his head sadly. "Gun's full of blanks."

"What?" She leaned closer to him. "Why didn't you tell me before now?"

He didn't answer, picking up the bolt cutters and launching himself at the dark-haired woman. The gun went off, bullet gouging a new hole into the floor. She fired again, the bullet tracing a line of fire and pain along his hip. He swung the bolt cutters, knocking the gun out of her hand.

"Go, Hope!" he grunted and caught the punch meant for his face.

Hope bolted past the fight, hands tucked into balls as she ran. Raylan nodded in grim satisfaction, drawing the dark-haired woman closer to him, blocking her strikes simply by being too close for her to land them. One hit his shoulder, making him recoil in pain.

"Get away from him!" Hope screamed. "Right now! Get the hell away from him!"

The dark-haired woman turned just in time to take a bullet in the chest. She collapsed, gasping for air.

Hope stared at her, wordless emotions playing across her face. She settled on horror, dropping the gun. It fired again, the ricchoet punching a hole in the wall above the door.

Raylan dropped to his knees beside the dark-haired woman, pressing his hand on the wound. "Hope!" he snapped. "Hope!"

Her eyes slowly tracked to his face. "Go outside. Get in her car and drive until you reach the main road. Call 911 and tell them we need help out here."

She shook her head. "I shot her!"

"Yes, you did." Raylan said. "Now, you need to go get us help. Can you do that?"

Hope nodded, bolting away from the small, close room as if the hounds of Hell were chasing her. Raylan watched her go and hoped that she'd bring help back in time.

The dark-haired women moved weakly under his hand. "Why are you helping me?" she gasped.

Raylan bit his lip. "Because it's the right thing to do."

"I don't deserve it." She coughed, blood painting her lips bright red.

He shook his head. "I'm not doing it for you." He tilted his head in the direction of the road. "I'm doing it for her."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

She clutched the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles white as she fought for control. The car hit a pothole and bounced. It slammed her against the door. She choked back a curse and pressed harder on the gas pedal. The rotting wooden bridge creaked under the car's weight as she crept across it, gunning the engine once she was clear.

A sudden bend made her gasp, stamping on the brakes as she tried to keep the car on the narrow track. It slid sideways, rear bumper smashing into a tree before the car shuddered to a stop across the road.

For a long second, she didn't move, eyes wide as she stared at the huge tree inches from her face. _That would have killed me if I'd hit it,_ she thought. Harsh breath tore through her as she shakily turned the ignition key. The engine grumbled. She closed her eyes, twisting the key again. This time, the engine caught. She put it into drive, moving off carefully.

Dust rose behind her as she followed the rutted track. Grass and small trees grew in the middle of it, signs that it didn't get used very often. The roar crept slowly higher, peaking in a small rise.

She stopped to check the cell phone for a signal.

"Shit!" she cursed, throwing the phone back on to the passenger seat as she saw only a red cross.

The trees seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on her like a dense green blanket. A big black bird took off from the woods next to her in a flap of noise and motion. It made her jump, jerking the car halfway across the track before she got her nerves back under control.

A stone bounced against the side window. It scraped against the glass like a witch's fingernails. Tears raced down her face. She barely noticed them. The taste of blood filled her mouth as she bit her lip.

_Come on! I don't have much time!_ she thought, and felt like screaming the words as the road twisted back on itself, crawling deeper into the woods. Branches brushed against the sides of the car. She looked forward, spotting a few that were already broken.

"This has to be the right way," she said aloud, "I'm going to find the main road soon and get help."

Her stomach twisted sickly as she thought of the feel of the gun in her hand as she fired the bullet. She closed her eyes for a second, shaking her head. "Don't think about that now. Just get help!"

A sharp dip gave her hope. She drove down the hill slowly, memories of sliding across the trunk going up it flooding back. The distant sound of music tickled her ears. "I have to be near the road. That must be someone's car," she said, too worried to care that she was having a conversation with herself.

The road levelled out again, stretching in front of her in a straight line. Carefully, she sped up, leaning forward to see better. A sliver of black and yellow against the woods made her eyes widen. The track turned slightly, meeting the main road at an angle.

She stopped just off it, picking the cell phone up off the passenger seat. The reception bars flickered between two and one. She dialled anyway, pressing the phone tightly to her ear as she waited for it to connect.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

Static crackled across the connection. "I need help... I sho... there was someone shot."

"Miss, I need you to calm down. Where are you, and what do you need?" The dispatcher asked.

Hope sucked in a deep breath. "I need an ambulance. A woman has been shot. There's a Marshal called Raylan Givens with her. We were kidnapped. The police chief is in on it." Her voice shook. She tightened her hand on the wheel.

The sound of an approaching car made her look up, eyes widening in horror as she saw what was coming. She slammed her elbow down on the door locks, watching as the man approached. The car engine spluttered weakly as she put her foot on the gas.

"Miss, I need your location."

"I don't know it!" she cried. "It's all just woods!"

Glass shattered over her as the chief used the butt of his gun to smash the window. She fought him, clawing at his hands as he tried to take the phone from her. "Help me! Oh, God, he's going to kill me!"

The chief slammed his fist into her cheek, dazing her. The phone fell from her hand.

He lifted it to his ear. "Hi, this is chief Nick Oakley. I'll deal with this. The girl is clearly out of her mind on drugs, and there's liquor on the seat next to her."

He ended the call, turning the phone off. Glass tore at his skin as he reached through the shattered window to open the locks. She scrambled away from him as he reached for her. His hand closed on her hair, pulling her back.

"I'm going to kill you for this, you little bitch!" he screamed, and reached for his gun.

She slammed the door into him with all of her strength, knocking him off his feet. The gun landed on the road and slid under the car. She didn't wait to see what he'd do, but took off running for the patrol car he'd been driving.

A sharp pop made her jump. The bullet missed her body, burying itself in a tree inches to her left. She yanked the door open, almost falling into the car. The keys dangled from the ignition. Shaking, she twisted them, starting the engine.

The back windscreen shattered as a bullet passed through it. She screamed as the projectile tore across her shoulder before punching out the front windscreen. Blood poured down her arm.

She set her teeth and kept driving, know it was her only chance to get help. The chief's phone beeped, drawing her attention. She reached for it, dialling information with clumsy hands. "I need to speak to the person in charge of the marshals in Kentucky..."

A beat of dead silence echoed down the line. "Miss, if you need help, I can put you through to the local police or nine-one-one," the operator said uncertainly.

"I can't trust them. Just connect me!" Hope snapped. "Please. I really need their help!"

"Okay then," the operator said. "One moment."

The phone rang a couple of times before a female voice answered it. "US marshal service, Kentucky office."

Hope sniffed. "I need help. Raylan Givens told me to call..."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Art paced outside of the hospital room, brow creased with worry. He paused to check his watch, then started pacing again. Rachel rounded the corner with two cups of coffee in her hands and passed one to him. Distracted, he took it, making a face as he took a sip. It was hot and bitter. He blew over the top of it to cool it.

Rachel sat carefully on an orange plastic seat and balanced her coffee on her knee. "How is she doing?

"The doctor is still with her," Art said. "I don't think it'll be much longer before we can talk to her."

Rachel sipped her coffee. "I hope she can tell us where the house is."

Art met her eyes for a beat, nodding once. "Me too."

Silence fell for a long moment, broken only by the far off clack of someone's shoes. The intercom buzzed, calling for a doctor to go to the ER. A nurse opened the door at the end of the hallway, shooting them a curious glance when she passed.

"Do you think he's still alive?" Rachel frowned, drawing her eyebrows together.

"Raylan?" Art pursed his lips. "I think that son of a bitch will keep him alive as long as he can. He's a bargaining chip while he's alive. Dead, he's just years on the bastard's jail time."

The female doctor poked her head out of the door. "You can talk to her now."

Rachel dumped her coffee into a rubbish bin. "How is she doing?"

The doctor stepped out of the door, closing it behind her. "Physically, she's pretty beaten up. Looks like someone really smacked her about one or two days ago. The bullet just grazed her arm. That should heal fine." She bit her top lip. "There are signs she had rough sex within the past week or so. I can't tell if she consented to it, but given the bruises everywhere else..." she let the sentence trail off.

"How is she mentally?" Art asked. "She sounded pretty damn calm on the phone."

The doctor tucked her hands into her pockets. "She is very shaken up, I think. Could be delayed shock. We're keeping her in for a few days to observe her, just in case."

Art nodded. "Thanks."

She inclined her head. "You're welcome. Ten minutes, okay? I don't want her tiring out too much."

Rachel smiled as the doctor walked past, heading towards the nurse's station a little way down the hall.

Art opened the door and stepped into the room. He stayed a few steps away from the bed.

Hope looked up from the bed. Her arm was in a sling. Stark white bandages covered the cuts on her face and arms. She looked pale, but composed, lips pressed tightly together.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly.

Art smiled. "I'm Art Mullen. This is Rachel Brooks. We're with the Marshals service. You wanted to speak to us?"

Hope clenched the sheet in her hand, eyes fixed on his face. "I want to see some ID."

Rachel pulled her badge from her belt, passing it over. Art held his up, waiting while Hope read it.

She sighed, relaxing. "Okay. The chief has Raylan and the coroner. She was shot." She sucked in a breath. "I tried to tell them, but they won't listen to me. You have to go and get him before the chief kills him!"

Rachel sat next to the bed. "Where is the chief keeping him?"

Hope leaned forward. "I don't know... I can take you though." Art exchanged a glance with Rachel. Hope sighed. "You don't believe me. You think I'm making this up to get attention or something, don't you?"

Art shook his head. "No, honey. We don't."

"Then let's go!" she slammed her good hand down on the bed.

"It's not that simple," Rachel said. "We need time to get a team together. We have to do this properly."

Hope shook her head. "You're going to be too late."

Rachel leaned closer. "We have to do things by the book. If we don't, if we screw up, he'll get away with it. We have a team searching the area you told us about. We'll find them, don't worry."

"You'll help the other girls too?" Hope asked. She sniffed, blinking back tears. "Some of them are only kids, you know? And he's using them to make money!" Her voice rose. "That bastard is using them... hurting them so he can make money!"

Tears poured down her face. She closed her eyes, tilting her face away as she sobbed silently. The tears dripped off her chin and landed on the crisp sheet, making a small damp circle.

"We catch him, he'll never see the outside of a prison again," Art promised.

She lifted her chin. "I want you to kill him."

Art shifted, uncomfortable. "That would make me just like him."

Rachel pulled a notepad out of her pocket. "Hope, I need you to tell us everything you can remember about the place. How many girls is he holding?" she asked gently.

"At least five... he keeps bringing new girls in." Hope laughed bitterly. "Gotta give the customers new product, right?" She scrubbed a hand over her eyes, stifling a yawn. "I'm so tired. I just want this all to be over."

Art nodded. "I can understand that."

"Will it get easier?" Hope asked, eyes wide and dark. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. Tell me it won't always be like this."

"It gets easier. You go on living... making new memories to push those bad ones back. It's how you beat the bastards, honey," Rachel murmured. "If we get a map, can you show us the route to where you were held? It's our best chance to find them quickly. The team is searching, but that takes a lot of time."

"And you don't have time to spare, right?" Hope nodded. "I'll do my best."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

She coughed, blood peppering her lips. The force of it shook her body, making her head bump off the floor. A fine layer of perspiration covered her skin, making her shiver in the light breeze.

Raylan shifted his hand, pressing down on the wound as hard as he dared. Bone shifted under his palm. Warm blood trickled over his fingers. She moaned, twisting away from the pressure.

"I'm sorry. I know it hurts," he murmured. He reached around her with his other arm and tugged her onto his lap, sitting her up a little. It eased her breathing a tiny bit. "Talk to me."

"I'm dying. Drowning in my own blood." She smiled and sniffed away tears.

Raylan opened his mouth to speak. She held up a blood stained hand.

"Don't try to deny it. I'm a coroner. I know a fatal wound when I see one." The effort of saying so much made her cough again. "You you think doing bad things makes you a bad person?"

"No," he said hoarsely and bit his lip. "No. I think sometimes good people do bad things because they have no other choice."

Her breath hitched in her chest. "Do think that's what I did?" she whispered.

He brushed his thumb over her pale cheek, smoothing her hair back. "Yes. I think you did what you had to do."

"I'm sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen."

A fresh tear rolled down her cheek. The clouds broke apart outside, sending a beam of sunlight into the room. It brushed across her face, warming her skin for a few short seconds before the clouds blocked the sun again.

Distant footsteps drew his attention, but he kept his eyes on her face. The shadows under her eyes looked like bruises against the paleness of her skin. She reached for his hand, grabbing it desperately.

"I'm cold." Her eyes fluttered closed. She jerked them open after a second, gasping. "I'm scared... I'm so scared."

He clamped down hard on his own emotions, keeping his voice steady with sheer force of will. "I know. It's okay... You're okay."

She blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open. "Tell... tell my mom I'm sorry, and that I love her. Tell her I hope she was proud..."

He smiled sadly, sensing that she was fading fast. "I'll tell her. I promise."

She nodded, eyes closing. "Thank you, Raylan... You're a good ma..." she sighed, body falling limp as she died.

Raylan eased the body off his legs, wiping his bloody hands on his shirt. He stared at the half-open doorway with rage in his eyes. "You might as well come in. I know you're there, Chief."

The stocky man stepped around the door. "Aw, such a shame she's dead. She was fantastic in the sack."

Raylan grabbed the gun from the floor, pointing it at the Chief's gut. The other man stared at the gun and laughed. "Are you going to kill me, Raylan?" The chief asked.

"Nope." The taller man shook his head. "Where you're going, you'll just wish I'd killed you."

"Put that thing down. There's no way they'll find you if I'm dead." The Chief turned his back, walking towards the window.

"You killed her, you know." Raylan sighed. "Oh, you might not have put one in her chest yourself, but you killed her all the same."

The Chief leaned on the windowsill, flicking a shard of broken glass outside. "Oh, don't be so melodramatic, son. I didn't do anything. She had a choice, same as anyone."

"That so?" Raylan asked, his voice deceptively soft.

The Chief turned and leaned against the wall. "Yup. I didn't make her do anything."

"So the fact that you're holding her mother hostage has nothing to do with it?" Raylan lifted his eyebrows, daring the Chief to lie.

"She told you about that?" The Chief pursed his lips. "She could've been lying."

"She could've..." Raylan allowed. "But I don't think so. Here's what we're going to do." He pointed at the Chief. "You're going to come over here and open this lock. Then we're gonna walk out of this cabin, nice and slow."

The Chief scuffed his toe across the floor. "And if I don't?"

Raylan laughed darkly. "Oh, there at lots of places I can shoot you where you won't die. How many bullets can you take, Chief?"

The stocky man swallowed hard. "I could just walk out of here."

"You could," Raylan said. "Think you can get across the room before I can put a bullet in you?" He laughed again. "'Cause I know there's no way you're gonna fit out of that window."

"Fine!" the Chief snarled. "Fine. I'll unlock you."

He stomped across the room, dropping to one knee as he slipped the key into the lock on the chain around Raylan's wrist. It dropped to the floor with a heavy clunk.

"Very good." Raylan stood. "Drop your guns on the floor and kick them away." He kept his own gun trained steadily on the Chief's chest. "Back-ups too."

The Chief pulled the shiny revolver from the back of his belt, tossing it across the room. His semi-automatic went next, landing with a thunk somewhere next to the wall.

"Now what?" the stocky man asked.

"Now you cuff yourself and start walking. I'll be right behind you. Don't try anything. I'll put a bullet in you before you even turn around."

The Chief pulled his handcuffs from his belt, securing them around his own wrists. He walked towards the door, pausing before stepping into the hallway. "You gonna walk the whole way back to the city?" he asked.

Raylan shook his head. "Nope. Just to the road. I figure you've got a cell phone on you somewhere."

The left the house in silence. Raylan studied the area as he walked, surprised by the size of the clearing around the house.

"Gonna be a long damn walk if you don't say anything the whole way," the Chief grumbled.

Raylan leaned closer to him. "You don't want me to talk. I might just convince myself to shoot you in the gut and leave you for dead."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" The Chief asked slyly, pausing to look over his shoulder at Raylan.

The taller man gave him a shove. "Keep walking."

"You'd enjoy it though, wouldn't you?"

Raylan bit his lip, stifling a dark chuckle. "Not as much as I'm going to enjoy seeing you locked away for what you did. How long do you think you're gonna last in the big house, huh?"


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

The chief stumbled onto the road. Despite the chill in the air, both men were breathing hard from the long walk. Raylan swiped a hand across his forehead, wiping away the perspiration there. His shirt clung to his back from the effort of walking the hard road.

"Jesus Christ, you are trying to kill me," the chief wheezed. His cheeks were bright read with exertion.

Raylan eyed the wrecked car, which sat at the edge of the road at a drunken angle. The rear bumper hung on the ground. One front tire was flat, punctured beyond repair by a shard of metal from the road. He tipped his head towards it.

"You have anything to do with that?" he asked.

Broken glass littered the floor, reflecting the late afternoon light. A few shards were smeared with blood.

"Nope." The chief shook his head. "It was like that when I got here."

Raylan sighed. "Left or right?" he asked flatly.

The chief stared. "Wha... what?"

"You're not telling me the truth." Raylan lifted the gun, pointing it at the chief. "So pick one, and we'll see how your story hold up when there's a hole in you."

The stocky man pursed his lips, backing up a nervious step. He opened his hands as best he could, turning his palms toward Raylan. "I swear, Raylan. I had nothing to do with this."

Raylan fired. The bullet tore into the tree next to the chief's head, peppering him with splinters of wood and bark. The stocky man flinched, cursing when a few of the splinters bit into his skin. The scent of bruised tree sap hung thickly in the air.

"Next one goes into you." Raylan warned. "Now, wither you get a talent for flying I don't know about, or you're still lying to me. Which is it?"

The chief frowned, confused. "Flying? What in the name of hell are you talking about?"

Raylan scuffed the toe of his boot across the road. "You had to get out here somehow." He shrugged. "Now, I know you didn't walk."

Sweat dripped into the chief's eyes. He blinked it away. "How'd you know that I didn't have someone give me a ride?" the chief whined.

Raylan pursed his lips, leaning back against the ruined car. "'Cause they'd still be up at the house, waiting for you to get done killing me." He aimed the gun at the chief's left knee. "Think you can live with only one working leg, Nick?" He stressed the K, making it a hard, ugly sound.

The man held his hands up. "Now, Raylan. Don't be hasty. Let's talk about this."

Raylan glanced down at the gun. "You should tell me what I want to know," he commented casually.

"Alright, alright!" the chief yelled. "When I got here, that stupid bitch had crashed the car. I was gonna take her back up to the house." His cheeks darkened. "She smacked me in the balls with the car door and took off in my car."

Raylan lowered the gun and laughed. "Good for her. Got you right in the brains, did she?"

"God-damned bitch!" The chief shook his head.

Raylan tilted his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Well, way I see it, you're lucky that's all she did." He gestured at the chief. "Now, give me your phone, Nick."

The chief stared, debating if he should tell the truth. "I don't have one," he muttered, voice shaking.

Raylan sucked a breath between his teeth and clicked the safety back on the gun. With stiff, angry movements, he slipped the gun back through his belt.

The older man backed up another step as Raylan stalked towards him.

"You are a law enforcement officer." Raylan said, voice hard and cold. A thread of bitter amusement slipped into his voice. "Granted, a piss poor one, but a law enforcement officer all the same. So I just can't believe that you'd come all the way out here without a cell phone."

Anger chased the pain from his bones as he caught hold of the chief's arm and slammed him against the trunk of the car. He patted the stocky man down with sharp, savage gestures. His hand brushed over something in the chief's pocket. He yanked it out, holding it up.

"Well, would you look at that." He muttered. The chief grunted as Raylan grabbed his chin, turning his head towards the phone. "Sit down. I'll shoot you if you move."

The older man slumped against the car's wheel, shoulders bowed.

Raylan dialled a number he had taken pains to learn. It rang three times before someone answered. "Art? It's Raylan." A beat of shocked silence followed his words. He frowned at the phone. "Art? Are you there?" Raylan asked, wondering if he'd finally managed to give his boss a heart attack.

"Raylan? Where the hell are you?" Art asked. "We've been searching for you."

The tall man looked around, a wry smile forming on his lips when he realised all he could see was road and trees.

"I don't know. Hang on. The chief is here with me. Let me ask him." He trapped the phone between his ear and his good shoulder, turning towards the chief. He nudged the older man's leg with the toe of his boot. "Where are we?"

The chief glared up at Raylan. "Why should I tell you that?"

Raylan shook his head. "You're just asking for maximum time on your sentence, aren't you?" He turned his attention back to the call. "You're going to have to trace the call."

Art sighed. "Okay Raylan. Just hang on. We'll be with you shortly."

The tall man smiled. "I can't wait."


	19. Chapter 19

Author's note-

Sorry there was no update yesterday. I got roped into a birthday party after work and figured my drunken ramblings weren't what you really wanted to read.

Things are starting to wrap up now. I have a huge conclusion planned, which is going to be a ton of fun to write. :D Not quite there yet though.

Thanks for reading. :D

Lou

Chapter Nineteen

Art laid the phone handset gently on the desk, taking care not to end the call, then hurried to the door. He opened it and leaned out.

"Tim!" he called sharply.

Everyone in the office turned in Art's direction. He scowled at them until they went back to what they'd been doing. A phone rang, shattering the quiet of the afternoon.

The younger man looked up from his desk. He held a thick file in one hand, and a coffee cup in the other. "You want me?"

Art nodded. "Come here a minute. I need you to do something for me."

Curious, Tim laid down the file he was reading and crossed the office. Art closed the door behind him.

"What's up?" Tim asked.

Art nodded at the sofa. Tim sat on it, leaning forwards, hands clasped between his knees. Art leaned against his desk, casting a wary eye over the rest of the office.

"I need you to trace a call." Art leaned over the phone to get the number. He wrote it down on a scrap of paper and handed it to Tim. "Raylan is on the other end. We need to know where he is so we can go get him."

"I'll get right on it." He closed his hand around the scrap of paper. "How does he sound?"

Art glanced at the phone, then shook his head. "He sounds like hell."

Tim blinked and shook his head a little. "Five minutes, and I'll have the location."

"Keep this quiet, okay?" Art asked.

Tim nodded. "Of course," he said, slipping out of the door and walking briskly back to his desk.

Art dropped back into his desk chair and picked up the handset again. "Raylan?"

Static cracked across the line for a long second. Art frowned at the phone, hoping that the connection would stay up long enough for the trace to complete. The static cleared. Art could hear the sound of himself breathing against the phone.

"I'm here," Raylan said. "Got a trace going?"

"Tim's on it now." Art said. "How are you feeling?" He grabbed a pen, flipping it in his hand as he listened.

Raylan paused. "I've been better," he admitted hoarsely after a long second. "Be glad to get something to eat."

Art smiled. "Hell, Raylan. I'll take out for a steak when you get back to civilisation. How's that sound?"

Raylan huffed a tired sigh. "Make it fried chicken, and you're on."

"I'll see what I can do." Art said with a little laugh.

Silence fell over the line again for a few seconds. Raylan broke it. "The lady coroner is dead. She was shot. Chief's gun, I think."

Art frowned at the desk. "The Chief's in on this?"

"Hell, yeah. He's running kids though the county, selling them to the highest bidder as sex toys," Raylan said. "Aw, hell, Chief. Don't go all bashful now. You know it's true."

Alarm quickened in Art's chest. "He's there with you?"

"He's cuffed to the damn car. He's no threat, don't worry," Raylan said tiredly. "How long for the trace?"

Art glanced at his clock. "Couple more minutes."

"How are you thinking of getting here?" Raylan asked.

Something in his voice made Art pause. "Well, I was gonna use my private jet, but it's getting detailed, so I'll have to come by car," Art said, sarcasm muted. "Why? Is there a particular ride you'd like?"

Raylan sucked in a breath. "Just one that gets here quick. That's all I'm asking."

Art considered those words carefully, instinct screaming at him that something was wrong. "Raylan, what aren't you telling me?"

The other man blew out a breath that sounded like a gale over the phone. "Nothing that can't wait," he muttered.

Tim rapped his knuckles sharply on Art's door. Art beckoned him in. "We have your location." He accepted the sheet of paper from Tim. "It'll take us a couple of hours to reach you. You're in the middle of nowhere."

Tim watched him carefully. Art tucked the phone against his neck. "Go get the car ready. Let Rachel know what's going on. Don't tell anyone else. I want this kept private."

The younger man nodded, slipping out of the office. Art watched him go, the refocused his attention on the phone.

"Feels like it," Raylan agreed. "Nothing here but road and trees."

"Is there anything you need?" Art asked.

Raylan chuckled tiredly. "Nothing you can bring with you."

Art frowned, worry growing in his chest. A sound in the background made him press the phone more tightly to his ear, straining to make out the words.

"The Chief asks if you can bring coffee. Says he's been without a cup for too long," Raylan muttered. "Make sure it's de-caff, would ya?"

"Tell the son-of-a-bitch that missing his coffee is the least of his worries. He has a lot to answer for."

"Oh, I think he knows that," Raylan agreed wryly. "I think he knows that well."

Art hesitated. "I'm going. Be careful, okay?"

Raylan huffed a breath. "Art, you know me."

Art smiled, a little sadly. "Yup. That's what worries me."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Dusk pressed heavily on the trees. Raylan tilted his head back to look at the sky. Storm clouds gathered on the far horizon, dark against the rich blue sky. He turned his eyes away from them, scanning the tree line. A bat swooped after its next meal, wheeling in the air. Some small animal scuttled in the undergrowth.

The chief tossed a bit of stone from the road in the direction of the noise. A twig snapped as the animal bolted in the other direction. The stocky man picked up another stone, rolling it between his fingers.

"Did you mean it?" he asked. He caught his lip between his teeth and sucked in a breath.

Raylan turned his head towards the chief. "Did I mean what?"

The chief kept his eyes focused on the stone in his hands. "The stuff you said about good people doing bad things because they have no other choice."

Raylan turned his eyes back to the sky. "What do you think?"

The chief let out a long breath. "I think that you did." He tossed the stone into the undergrowth. "I'm not the one running this. I just provide the security."

Raylan raised his eyebrows. "Who is running it then?"

The chief shook his head. "Oh, no." He shot Raylan a desperate, panicked look. "I tell you that, he'll kill me."

Fabric rustled as Raylan settled a little more comfortably against the car, stifling a pained groan then he moves his injured shoulder. He sighed, focusing his attention on the chief to keep his mind off the pain.

"If I was you, I'd be bargaining with everything I had." He tapped his finger against his knee. "It's not like you're gonna be any safer in jail." He paused thoughtfully. "In fact, I'd say you're gonna be worse off. Jail cell doesn't have many places to hide."

The chief stared at Raylan. "Are you threatening me?"

Raylan laughed darkly. "Would I do that to you, Nick?" He stressed the K, making it sound hard and brittle. "I'm just trying to get you to consider your options, that's all."

"'Cause you've got my best interests at heart, right?" The chief asked sarcastically.

"Oh, I don't give a shit about you." Raylan shrugged. "It's the girls you have stashed in a piece of shit cabin somewhere that I'm interested in."

The chief laughed. "Well, at least you're honest."

A pair of bats swooped overhead, filling the sky with motion for a few brief seconds. Raylan watched them.

"Seems the best way."

The sound of a distant car engine rumbled through the night. It sent the small animals in the undergrowth scurrying for cover, leaving the patch of wilderness quiet and still.

"Someone's coming." The chief muttered.

"Yup." Raylan checked the gun and eased to his feet. "Better hope it's my buddies and not yours."

The chief looked at the gun. "You gonna shoot them if it's my men?"

Raylan shrugged stiffly. "If I have to."

He stepped into the shadows behind the car, watching the road with alert eyes. Adrenaline sang through his body, chasing away the pain for a few blessed minutes.

Headlights crested the rise. Raylan lifted the gun halfway, straining to see past the car's lights. The car slowed and pulled into the side of the road, stopping a little way from the wrecked car. A dark figure stepped out.

"Raylan?" Art called, hand resting on his gun.

Another car pulled up behind the first. A man and a woman got out.

The sight of them brought a genuine smile to Raylan's lips. He clicked the safety on the gun and slid it back through his belt.

"I'm here!" he called, walking towards Art's car. Dull throbs of pain arced through his body with every step. He ignored it, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the pool of light.

Art stole a glance at his deputy's face, sucking in a shocked breath. Even in the sickly light from the car, Raylan looked pale and a little grey. A sheen of sweat covered his brow and upper lip.

"Good to see you, Art." Raylan murmured. "Been a damn long few days."

"I bet," Art agreed and nodded towards the car. "Go and sit down."

Raylan opened his mouth to protest. Art cut him off with a sharp look. "That wasn't a suggestion."

"Chief's down by the car. He's cuffed." Raylan opened the door to Art's car. "Says he's not the one running this."

Art snorted. "The doesn't surprise me. Never struck me as bright enough to plan this and get away with it for so long."

Raylan nodded. "That's what I thought."

"You gonna get in there, or just stand all night holding the door?" Art asked.

A little unsteadily, Raylan slipped into the car, slumping against the seat. He could hear Art's voice as the older man gave orders, but the glass muffled the sound, and he didn't have the energy to figure out what was being said.

The soft comfort of the seat and the warmth of the car lulled him into a quiet doze. He let himself drift, trusting his co-workers not to let anything happen to him.

A noise startled him. His eyes flew open, hand automatically reaching for his gun. The motion jarred his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and got his hand on the gun just as he realised the noise was no threat to him.

Art watched as Raylan relaxed the death grip he'd had on the gun.

"I'm sorry." Art slid into the car and turned the key to start the engine. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Raylan blinked sleep from his eyes. "Where's the chief?"

"Tim and Rachel are taking him to holding. We'll question him in the morning."

Raylan nodded. "Okay. Where are we going?"

Art glanced at Raylan. "We are going straight to the hospital."

Raylan couldn't find the energy or motivation to protest. He slumped against the seat. "Well, okay."

Art glanced at him again, then pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal, knowing that Raylan had to be feeling bad to give in without even a token fight. The car sliced cleanly through the night, heading back to civilisation. Neither man could wait to see it again.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

Art brought the car to a careful halt, glancing worriedly at his passenger. Raylan's eyes were closed. His chest moved in short, shallow breaths. Art reached over and shook him lightly, flinching a little at the heat coming from Raylan's body.

The taller man opened bleary, bloodshot eyes. "Yeah?" he asked, exhaustion plain in his voice.

"We're at the hospital." Art opened his door. "Stay there. I'm gonna grab a wheelchair. I won't be long."

Raylan frowned. "I can walk," he protested, gathering his last of his flagging energy before slipping out of the car. He braced himself against the car's roof with one hand, keeping the other arm still and close to his body.

"Hey, you can't park that there!" a male voice called.

Art looked up to see a security guard hurrying towards him, hand resting firmly on his gun.

"I'm a US Marshal," Art said and pulled out his badge, holding it up so the security guard could see it. "I have an injured man here who needs urgent medical attention."

The security guard stuck out his chin stubbornly. "Still can't leave that parked there."

Raylan let out a shaky breath, leaning more heavily on the car. The hospital's light reflected off the perspiration on his face.

Art yanked his keys out of his pocket and threw them at the security guard. "I'm sure you'll be delighted to move it for me then."

He ignored the shocked security guard and circled the car to get to Raylan's side.

"Ready?" Art asked.

Raylan lifted an eyebrow. "As I'll ever be." He sucked in a deep breath and started walking.

Pain spiked through his body with every step. He ignored it, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the hospital doors. Dizziness sang through him as he paused, chest heaving, for the automatic doors to slide open.

Art glanced around the quiet room, spotting two nurses filling in paperwork at the small nurse's station.

Raylan leaned against the wall, face deadly pale under the fever's flush.

"Need some help here!" Art called, grabbing the taller man's arm as he swayed dangerously.

The nurses abandoned their paperwork and rushed over. One brought a wheelchair. Raylan sank into it gratefully.

"What happened?" The red-haired nurse asked.

"I'll page the doctor," the other nurse said and walked away.

"Was bitten by a dog, few days ago..." Raylan started, falling silent as a violent shiver wracked his body.

Art took over. "His name is Raylan Givens. Until a couple of hours ago, he was being held in a piece of shit cabin. He was there for at least two days."

The nurse pushed the wheelchair into a room. "Okay. We can pull your file." She patted the bed. "Can you get up here for me?"

Raylan shot her a look, despite the fever. "Do my best," he muttered, climbing awkwardly onto the bed.

She smiled, pulling on a pair of gloves. "I need to get that shirt off you."

She reached for a pair of scissors. Art stopped her, touching her arm lightly. "It's evidence. I need you to preserve it."

"Okay," she said. "I'll do my best."

Raylan sighed and fumbled for the buttons with one hand, getting a couple undone before she stopped him. He watched as she unfastened the rest, easing the shirt off his good arm. She picked up the scissors and carefully slit the other sleeve through the seam, peeling the fabric away from his arm.

The movement wrenched a pained hiss from Raylan. His good hand clenched around the sheets, bunching the fabric so tightly his knuckles showed white through his skin.

Carefully, the nurse folded the shirt, slipping it into a brown paper bag. She reached for the tattered bandages on Raylan's shoulder just as the door swung open.

The doctor stepped into the room, a file in his hand. "Hi. I'm Doctor Carter. I'll take over from here."

Raylan nodded tiredly. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked the brown haired man.

The doctor cocked his head. "I don't think so, why?"

Raylan waved his hand. "Never mind. You just seem familiar, that's all."

Art shifted in the corner. "I'm gonna go catch up with Tim and Rachel. I'll be back in a few."

He gave Raylan an encouraging smile as he walked past. Long experience had shown him that Raylan didn't like people watching him if he was hurt. It was easier on both of them for Art not to be in the room.

The doctor pulled a pair of sterile gloves on. "Ruby, I'm gonna need you to start an IV. Draw bloods. Run a full CBC and Chem 7."

The nurse nodded, moving to the other side of the bed. She gathered the equipment she needed, taking hold of Raylan's good arm. "Just a little scratch," she said, drawing the blood.

Raylan nodded. "That's what they always say," he muttered.

She glanced up at him. "And we nursed never lie."

The doctor started peeling the bandages off Raylan's shoulder. The dark haired man flinched, then fell still, old habits rising in his mind.

"I'll be as quick as I can," the doctor promised.

Raylan blinked, feeling dizzy. "That'd be nice," he slurred.

The room twirled around him, lights spinning until they blended into one streak of bright colour. It hurt his eyes. He closed them, forcing them open a bare second later when the darkness made him feel worse.

"Raylan?" The nurse called, grabbing his shoulder as he slumped into unconsciousness.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's note-

I'm not sure when this is going to end! ;) It was only going to be about fifteen chapters, then twenty... I think it will be at least twenty five. :)

Thank you all for reading and giving me such nice reviews. Your support means a lot. It's nice to know that you're all enjoying this so much.

I might be a little bit slow getting this updated this week. I was playing with my dog yesterday and she caught my hand with her teeth. I'm okay- just a few stitches on a couple of fingers and my palm. Well, actually, more like five or six... Darn things are slowing my typing down. Grr...

Anyway, enough about me. Go read the chapter. :D

Lou

Chapter Twenty Two

Tim jabbed his finger down on the intercom button. Static hissed as it connected.

"Yes?" a distorted female voice asked. The connection was bad, making her voice lift and shake oddly.

Tim leaned closer to the mike. "Deputy US Marshals Tim Gutterson and Rachel Brooks. We're here to drop off a prisoner."

He held his breath, listening for a reply. The wind changed direction, gusting into the car. It made him shiver, glad that he was wearing a heavy jacket against the chill.

"Drive into the yard," the voice said.

An alarm sounded as the huge gate in front of the car crawled open. Rachel eased the car through the gap.

The prison yard spilled out in front of them. Spotlights kept it as bright at day. The walls were made from white-washed concrete. Gates and grills were set into the walls at odd intervals, leading to distant parts of the jail. The main doors were painted bright yellow, making them stand out.

"You can't do this to me!" the chief yelled. "You don't have the right!"

Rachel and Tim exchanged glances. The chief leaned forward, banging his cuffed hands against the seat.

"You can't make me go in there! You don't have the right to do it!" the chief yelled again.

Rachel pulled the car into a parking space and turned off the engine before twisting in her seat to look at the stocky man. Strength of will kept her face blank, and her hands resting on the seat in front of her. A muscle twitched in her cheek as she ran her eyes over the chief.

"Yes, we can," she said flatly and nodded towards Tim. "We are both law enforcement officers. We have proof that you where involved in a crime. You were read your rights." She faced forward again and unfastened her seatbelt, stepping out of the car.

Tim watched her across the roof as she yanked the door open and gestured for the chief to climb out.

He did, jamming his shoulder against the door to catch his balance. His cheeks were flushed with anger.

She leaned close to him, getting in his face. "There's not a damn thing you can do about it."

Tim slammed the car door, taking the chief's right arm. Rachel caught hold of his left, keeping him between them as they walked towards the main door for the jail. Their footsteps rang out against the concrete floor.

"Well, you could start talking." Tim held up his ID towards the small security camera. "I bet that would help. Lots of nice details, like who put you up to this."

Rachel pursed her lips. "Can't hurt, can it?" she agreed. "Might even take a few years off your time."

The heavy metal door scraped open. A tall, well built black guard stood on the other side.

"This our new inmate?" the guard asked, swinging his keys. They chimed softly as they struck each other. "You want him in solitary, right?"

Tim stepped though the door first, pulling the chief after him. He paused and looked back at the stocky man. "Eh, I dunno. Spending a little time getting to know his new friends might be good for him. What do you think, Rachel?"

She tilted her head, frowning. "I know what I'd like to do with him. We need the information he's got though."

The guard shrugged, taking the paperwork she offered him. "I heard he shot a patrolman."

Tim nodded and pulled a pen from his pocket. "You heard right. We got the video back from the poor bastard's patrol car a couple of hours ago. He didn't stand a chance."

The chief struggled against his restraints. "That son of a birch was gonna to get us all killed!"

Rachel shook her head. "Well, I'm sure his family will be greatly comforted by that information," she said dryly.

Tim signed the last sheet of paper and handed the pile back to the guard, tucking the pen back into his pocket. "All done. He's your problem now."

"And don't that just make me the happiest man alive." The guard sighed. "Solitary, right? Might keep the son of a bitch alive long enough for you to question him."

The chief clenched his hands into fists so tightly his nails bit into his skin. He trembled, rage consuming him. "I'll get you for this!"

Rachel looked at Tim. "Did he just threaten us?"

Tim pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. "I think he did."

The guard laughed. "Well, they say you can't fix stupid. I guess they're right."

Despite the shackles on his wrists, the chief launched himself at Rachel, taking her to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

She grunted with pain as she hit the cold tile, then reached up, catching the chief's hands as he tried to choke her. He scraped his fingers over her skin as he fought to keep hold of her throat. She slammed her knee into his groin with all the strength she could muster.

The angle wasn't the best, but the blow hit with solid force. The chief let out a strangled scream and curled into a ball, hands clutching the injured area.

Tim grabbed hold of one of his arms, hauling him to his feet just as extra prison guards arrived.

The uniformed men grabbed the chief roughly, pinning him to the wall as they waited for the gate to open.

The stocky man found his voice long enough to yell. "You'll never find them. The little bitches are all going to die because of what you did here!"

Everyone ignored him. Tim offered Rachel a hand up, brushing a bit of dust off her shoulder. He ran his eyes over her, checking for injuries.

"You okay?" he asked. "Nice moves there. Shame you didn't hit him a bit harder."

Rachel smiled and nodded. "I'm fine. Son of a bitch surprised me. I didn't think he'd be that stupid."

The black guard handed Tim a copy of the paperwork. "Don't worry. We'll keep him nice and safe so you can question him." He nodded towards the interior door. "There he goes to his room right now."

Tim and Rachel looked over, seeing the chief's back as the guards dragged him down the narrow hallway. The stocky man was still screaming insults.

"I don't envy you that job," Rachel murmured.

The guard shrugged. "He'll settle down soon enough. Most of them do."

"We'll be back in the morning to question him. Can you give us a private room?" Tim asked.

The guard nodded. "We surely can. Just let us know when you're on your way, and we'll sort it out for you."

"Thank you." Tim smiled and held out his hand. "Well, we'll see you in the morning then."

The guard laughed and shook his head. "Oh, you won't see me. I'll be away home by then."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that where we all want to be?" she asked.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's note-

Yay, I can type fairly well with stitches. :D Hopefully, I'll be able to keep the chapters coming for you. :D

Lou

Chapter Twenty Three

Hope stared at herself in the mirror, studying the lines of her face. _I've changed_, she thought sadly. Even with the cuts and bruises, there was a stillness, a wariness that marked her as someone who had faced a nightmare and survived.

She touched the edge of one bruise with her fingertip, brushing across skin that changed from lurid purple to toxic green. The memory of getting that bruise trembled at the back of her mind, ready to spring forward if her control slipped even a tiny bit.

She let her hand drop, reaching for the cold tap to fill the sink with water. An icy chill ran through her as she dipped her hands in the water and splashed her face.

"Hope?" a nurse called from the main room.

Hope blinked water from her eyes and turned away from the mirror, thankful for the distraction.

"Yes?" she asked, leaving the bathroom and going back into her hospital room.

A dark haired nurse stood just inside of the door. "Hope, there's a Marshal here to see you."

Hope sucked in an excited breath. "Is it Raylan? Did they get him out? Are the other girls okay?"

Sudden tiredness swamped her. She settled back on the bed, pulling the blankets over her chilled body.

The nurse shook her head. "No. He's called Art Mullen."

Hope sagged against the pillows. "Oh," she whispered. "I see."

"You don't have to speak to him." The nurse smiled. "I can send him away if you'd like. I'll tell him you're sleeping."

"No!" Hope straightened. "Send him in, please."

The nurse nodded and opened the door. "Ten minutes, Marshal," she told Art.

"Ten minutes," he agreed and held the door as she slipped past into the hallway.

Hope watched as he took a seat, clasping his hands between his knees.

"What is going on?" she asked. "No-one will tell me anything. Did you find the girls? Are they okay? Did Raylan make it back?"

Art sighed. "We're still looking for the other girls. We're going to question Nick Oakley again in the morning."

Hope tilted her head, puzzled. "Nick Oakley?"

"The police Chief," Art explained. "We spoke with him tonight, but he's not being very co-operative." He paused. "Raylan is the reason I'm here, actually. He had a bad infection in his shoulder. They doctors are worried it might reach his heart."

Hope gasped. "Is he going to die?"

Art reached over and took her hand, holding her eyes. "He might. He's very sick."

A raw sob tore from her. She sank her teeth into her lip, trapping the sound inside. Tears coursed down her face. Irritably, she swiped a hand over her cheeks, smearing the tears on her skin. "He's a good man. It's not fair!"

Art rubbed her shoulder. "I know." He shrugged, sadly. "He's strong and pigheaded. He'll fight."

She sniffed hard. "Can I sit with him for a while? I know he's all alone right now."

Art looked at her sharply. "He told you that?"

She shook her head. "He didn't mean to, I think. They drugged him. It made him delirious. He didn't know what he was saying." She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself tightly. "They made him do things..."

Art let out a oddly held breath. "To you?" He asked carefully. "Did he hurt you?"

Her eyes widened in surprise. "No!" She shook her head wildly. "No! There was a fight... they made him fight with one of the Chief's men." Her face twisted as she remembered. "Raylan lost. They hurt him."

Sadness tinted relief bloomed in Art's chest. _Raylan would never forgive himself if he'd hurt her,_ he thought. _What did those bastards think they were playing at, though?_

The thought of the wanton abuse made anger grow deep in his gut. He sucked in a harsh breath, struggling to keep his temper in check.

"Do you know what they gave him?" Art asked, anger staining his voice.

She stared at him uncertainly, fear creeping into her eyes. "I don't know. Is it important?" she bit her lip. "The coroner woman said it was something a friend had made up for her."

Art touched Hope's arm gently. "It's okay." He smiled, anger still simmering in his gut. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, reading the message. It made him smile again. "I've just got word that your family is on their way. They're driving down and should get her in the morning."

Hope blinked tears from her eyes. "Thank you." She sniffed. "It's starting to feel like it's all over. I think it's all starting to go away."

Art forced a smile, the aching sadness in her words robbing him of speech. He patted her hand gently again. "It soon will be, Hope. It soon will be."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

Loud, distorted noises stabbed into his brain. He groaned, trying to make sense of the sounds. The closest resolved into the steady beat of a heart-rate monitor. A harsher, more distant sound turned into a man's voice as he gave orders Raylan didn't have the energy to figure out.

He sucked in a breath that tasted like disinfectant and forced his eyes open. Pale, dimly coloured light spilled across the room from the machines next to his bed. Rain ran snake like down the windows. He watched it, taking stock of his condition.

Every part of his body hurt. His shoulder and wrist were areas of muted agony. Fever-heat coursed through his veins, slicking his skin with perspiration. Exhaustion laid like a heavy weight on his chest. He fumbled for his call button, pressing it with a frightening lack of strength.

A nurse poked her head through the open door. "You're awake!" she exclaimed. "How do you feel?"

He swallowed a sarcastic response. "Like crap," he said and coughed. His voice sounded hoarse and rough. "How long was I out?"

She glanced at the clock. "A full day, close enough."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And I still feel like crap."

"You look a lot better now than you did when your boss brought you in," she replied and picked up his chart from the end of the bed, flipping through it before making a note of something. She adjusted his IV and hung a new bag of saline. "How's your pain? Do you need some more drugs?"

"I'm okay," he rasped, swallowing back a groan. "When can I get out of here?"

She raised her eyebrows. "When that infection in your shoulder is gone."

He scraped his teeth over his lip. "There's something important I need to do."

"The only thing you need to do right now is lay there and heal." She dropped the chart back into its holder. "This is serious, Raylan. You almost died in the ER. Your temp was that high the Doc was worried you were going to start seizing."

The words hit him hard. He sucked in a breath that turned into a dry cough. It sent pain ripping through him, almost bringing tears to his eyes.

She took hold of his good arm, supporting him until the coughing fit passed.

"I'll get you some ice," she offered. "And some pain meds."

He didn't protest as she left the room, coming back a few moments later with a paper cup half filled with ice and a loaded syringe.

She injected the drugs into his IV, adjusting the saline so it ran a little faster. He took the cup she offered him, fishing a sliver of ice out with shaking fingers. The movement jarred his shoulder, making him suck in a pained breath.

"Thank you," he rasped.

She touched his good shoulder. "You should start feeling less pain in a few minutes."

The sheets rustled as he shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. His IV line caught, making him wince as it pulled painfully against his skin. Carefully, he untangled it, pushing it out of the way.

"Can I sit up a little more?" he asked.

She nodded, reaching for the controls for the bed and raising the head of it about half way. It helped. He leaned back, the angle taking some of the pressure off his shoulder.

"Thanks," he said, and gave her an exhausted smile.

She inclined her head, smiling back a little. The wind shifted, lashing the rain against the windows. She turned to look at it, shaking her head. "I'm glad I'm not out in that. Forecast is talking about this turning to snow by the weekend."

He shifted painfully on the bed, bunching the sheet in his fist as pain sang through his body. It passed after a moment, and he relaxed, slumping against the pillows.

"How long do you think you'd last out in it?"

The ice took away the dryness in his throat. He pulled out another sliver, sucking on it as it melted.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Not very long. Couple of hours... half a day at most."

Someone knocked on the door. They both looked over to see Art standing in the doorway. "Mind if I come in?"

The nurse shook her head. "Nope. I think some company would do him good."

Art stepped through the door, lowering himself into the visitor chair with a not-quite-hidden groan. "Been a long day, Raylan."

"Been a long week, Art." Raylan sighed.

The nurse paused at the doorway. "I'll leave you to talk. Use your call button if you need anything."

Both men nodded. She smiled, then stepped out, closing the door halfway to give them a little privercy.

"The Chief talking yet?" Raylan asked.

Art shook his head. "Nope. Tim and Rachel have been over at the prision all day. He's more scared of this mysterious boss than he is of what we can do to him." Art shrugged. "We have a warrant to search his house and office. Should be interesting to see what we find."

"What about the search teams?" Raylan asked. "Have they found anything?"

Art met Raylan's eyes. "I pulled them back in because of the weather conditions. No sense in them getting injured walking around in the rain." He held up a hand to forestall Raylan's comment. "Soon as this breaks, I'll send them back out."

Angrily, Raylan shook his head. "They don't stand a chance, do they? No doubt the bastards have moved them by now. They're probably already dead."

"Raylan!" Art said sharply.

The dark haired man looked over at him, eyes full of quiet, tired anger. "Yeah?"

"We're doing our best." Art stood. "You're exhausted and ill. You're not thinking straight. Get some rest. God knows, the problems will still be here in the morning."

Raylan sighed. "Is there anything I can do?" He waved a hand at the room. "I'm gonna go crazy just stuck here, wondering what's going on."

Art paused at the door. "Hope's family arrived yesterday. They want to see you. If you feel up to it, you can talk to them." He smiled. "She's selling you as quite the hero."

Raylan frowned. "Damnit, Art. I'm not a hero. I was just doing my job."

Art shrugged. "Well, her family think you are one."

He waved and stepped through the door.

Raylan stared at the hallway, the words swirling around in his mind. _Don't think I deserve them, but damn, they feel good,_ he thought foggily just before sleep took him.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

Tim picked up a silver plastic voice recorder from an evidence box, hitting the play button with his thumb. A unintelligible wave of sound blasted from it before quieting, turning into a female voice.

Tim lifted the small device to his ear, straining to make out the sounds. The voice suddenly became clear, making his other hand clench into a tight fist as anger stole his breath.

"Art!" he called. "You're gonna want to hear this."

Sick rage swirled in his gut. He fought it down hard, locking it away to use when he needed it.

The older man tipped his head towards his office. Tim nodded and stood, carrying the voice recorder with him as he walked to join Art.

"What is it?" Art asked.

Tim plugged it into Art's computer. "Speakers are better," he muttered. "Mind if I close the door?"

Art pursed his lips, unease taking hold of his gut. "Is it that bad?"

"From the little I heard, yeah." Tim dropped into a seat and started the playback.

A harsh burst of sound filled the room again. Art frowned. "Is that someone laughing?"

Tim turned his hand in a thoughtful gesture. "I think so. It gets worse... just listen."

A female voice broke through the wild laughter. "By the time I'm finished with him, he'll be putty in your hands. You won't have to worry about the marshals anymore."

Art paused the playback. "That's the coroner. I can't believe she was involved in this."

Tim nodded, face twisted with disgust. "I can't believe any of them were."

Art un-paused the playback. Static hissed for a second before clearing.

Footsteps echoed eerily on the recording. A door creaked open. Something dropped onto a hard surface. Fabric rustled, hiding a few indistinct sounds.

"Now, I'd say this won't hurt, but that'd be a lie," the coroner drawled.

"What was that?" a groggy male voice asked.

Art paused the recording again. "That's Raylan."

Tim balled his hands into fists. "He sounds really bad. They drugged him, didn't they?"

Art nodded. "Hope told me so too." He stood and started pacing. "Damnit. I hope that bastard roasts in hell for this."

Motions quick and tight with anger, he reached over to un-pause the recording again.

A tinny clunk hissed from the speakers. "Oh, it's a little cocktail that I had a friend make for me. You won't be able to resist. In a couple of minutes, you'll do anything we want you to." The sound blurred, fading out as something rasped against the microphone. "Now, try not to fight it, okay? That just makes it work more quickly."

A door creaked open in the background. Light footsteps came into the room.

"I won't do it." Desperation and anger filled Raylan's voice. "I won't."

"Darlin', in a little while, you'll do anything we tell you to." The coroner purred. "Bring the girl," her voice sharpened, growing harder.

Something crashed against the floor. A male voice cursed in the background.

"What are you two staring at?" the coroner screamed, voice harsh with anger. "I'll deal with the little bitch. You know what you have to do." Her footsteps filled the tape, changing as she walked towards the room's door. "Just make sure you don't kill him, okay?"

A sudden bang on the recording made both men jump a little. Art frowned.

"You've caused us a lot of trouble." The coroner growled. "Now, I can't mark you up too badly, 'cause Nick has a client for you tonight. Needs the good un-blemished, you okay?" She laughed. "Aw, hell with it. It's not like he's going to care either way."

A female voice cried out in pain. "Get off me!" Fear filled the girl's voice.

The coroner continued talking as if the girl hadn't interrupted her. "So, little bitch, we're going to make your white knight here watch while my man here gives you the hiding you deserve for bringing the marshals down on us."

A shrill scream split the air. "Stop it!" the young female voice screamed. "Please! Please! I'll do anything!"

The sound of a fist being driven into a body filled the recording. A pain filled gasp made both men reach for the pause button.

Tim met Art's eyes. "Wonder which of them just got hit?" he asked.

Art stood, opening his safe to pull out his bottle of bourbon. He poured two stiff measures, handing one to Tim. "Does it matter?"

Tim swallowed a mouthful of his liquor, tilting his head. "Guess not."

Art let out a breath before hitting the play button.

The sharp sound of an open handed slap exploded from the recording. A pained whimper followed. More blows punctuated the sound of hands scrabbling on a dry wooden floor. Something crashed hard into a wall.

"The bastard threw her into the wall," Tim whisper over broken, ragged sobs. "Poor kid."

"Leave her alone!" Raylan's voice broke through the sobbing. "You bastard, leave her alone!"

"Pause it," Art asked.

Tim clicked the button, dropping the room into heavy silence for a few long seconds.

Art swallowed the last of his drink. "Raylan. He sounds groggy. The drugs must've been designed to stop him fighting back."

Tim stared uneasily into his glass. "There's not a hole deep enough in this country for these bastards."

Art rubbed the bridge of his nose, reaching for the play button again.

Rachel tapped on the door. Art motioned her in. "What is it?"

She met his eyes, face grim. "I have good news and bad news."

Art waved her into a seat. "Give me the bad first."

She tucked her feet under herself neatly, leaning forward. "The guards at the jail just found Nick Oakley. He was beaten to death with a length of metal pipe."

"Jesus Christ," Tim breathed. "Not that he didn't deserve it, but it would have been nice to get some info from him first."

"Amen to that." Art let out a long breath. "What's the good news?"

Rachel held up a sheet of paper. "I think I know where they're holding the girls."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

Dawn light spilled into the room, painting the walls in shades of peach and amber and rose. A flock of ducks flew through the sky, breaking the tranquil morning with flapping wings and honks. The rising sun caught on the tips of their wings, making them shine like gold against the pastel streaked sky.

Hope watched them go and wished she could fly away with them. Her fingers trembled against the cold glass of the window. She opened it a bare inch, letting the smell of cold air and damp vegetation into the room.

The cold sent a wave of goose bumps over her skin. She shivered, but left the window open, retreating to her chair and blanket. The scent of freshly washed cloth enveloped her as she wrapped the blanket around herself.

Her gaze fell on the bed. Raylan was sleeping flat on his back, face relaxed. A muscle jumped in his cheek as she watched. She held her breath as his face took on tension and pain.

"Raylan?" she whispered and reached out with one hand.

"Hope?" he rumbled. "What're you doing here?"

She tilted her head shyly. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep. The nurse said I could sit with you a while."

"She did, did she?" he muttered, sucking in a breath between his teeth as he eased upright. "How is your family doing?"

Hope bit her lip. "Fine," she said shortly. "They're just fine."

He shot her a sideways glance. "Sounds like it."

His hand trembled as he reached for the cup of water on the table next to the bed. He wrapped his fingers around it, wishing it was something stronger as he lifted it to his mouth.

She opened her mouth, closing it again without speaking. "How do you feel?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "I'm okay."

She raised both of hers back. "In the same way my family is okay?"

He tipped the glass in her direction, a small smile on his lips. "That's about it."

A nurse ran past in the hallway, shoes squeaking on the floor. Distant shouts drifted into the room.

"Raylan..." Hope started, then paused. "I need to tell you something..." She shot a glance at the door as something crashed onto the floor. "My parents had a threatening phone call last night. It really scared them."

Concern washed over him, sharpening his gaze. "Did you tell Art?" he asked.

She shook her head. "They said not to tell anyone or someone would come for me."

He let out a long breath, knowing the futility of arguing with someone in the face of that threat, but feeling compelled to try anyway. "You have to tell Art. We can move your parents into another hotel... put a guard on your room."

Relief filtered into her eyes. "You can do that?"

He nodded. "Of course we can."

She stood, keeping the blanked wrapped around herself and crossed back to the window. "You were dreaming when I got here," she said softly.

The sky hid brightened, muted shades turning into rich blue. She fixed her eyes on the road, watching the cars drive past.

He studied her back, wondering what she was trying to say.

"What were you dreaming about?" she asked in a whisper.

He bit his lip. "Nothing important. Just something that happened when I was a kid." He looked away, fixing his gaze on the blankets over his body.

"Did he hurt you, Raylan?" she said so softly he had to strain to hear the words. "My father hurts me." She sniffed hard, shoulders lifting. "That's why I ran away." She laughed bitterly. "Boy, that was jumping from the frying pan into the fire, wasn't it?"

The flat finality of her words robbed him of his voice for a long second.

"Hope..." He started, stopping when she turned away from the widow to face him. "You don't have to go back there." She licked her lips, wiping the tears from her face. "You learn to cry silently, so they can't hear. So they don't know how much they've hurt you. Don't you?"

He held up a hand. "Hope..."

She crumpled into a ball on her chair, raising her eyes to him. "Please tell me I'm not the only one in the world who feels like this. I love him, but I hate his fucking guts too... It's killing me inside because I don't know how to feel." Raw emotion clogged her voice, turning the plea desperate, primal.

It touched something deep inside of him, freeing words he never intended to speak aloud to anyone. The was a part of him he thought he'd buried that had hoarded those words, waiting for a moment when they could escape... could tear lose from him in a wash of cleansing pain.

He pressed his lips together. "My Daddy had problems..." A wry smile twisted his mouth at the understatement. "Some days he'd go out and get so drunk he could barely walk, then come home and start beating on my Momma." He closed his eyes, remembering the sound of a fist striking skin in the dark... remembering whimpering cries of pain he could do nothing to stop. "Soon as I got big enough, I started trying to protect her." His mouth twisted in remembered disgust. "'Course, it didn't help much. He just decided to start beating on me instead."

She stared at him silently, tears coursing down her cheeks. "That's what you were dreaming about?"

He blew out a breath. "That was part of it."

"I'm scared, Raylan. I can't live with him again. He has this belt..." she held her hands up, a few inches apart to demonstrate how wide it was. "Any time I do anything wrong, he goes and gets it." She blinked, fresh tears running down her face. "I tried to run once before this... he waited until the cops brought me home and beat me twice as bad. He'll kill me if I go back."

He grabbed the memories trembling in the edges of his mind and shoved them back into the deep, hidden box from where they'd come.

"You don't have to go back there, Hope. There are options. I'll talk to Art... he can get child serviced involved..."

"No!" she cried, eyes wide with fear. "My mother will never agree. She'll force me to go back with them."

He stared at her, knowing he was treading a dangerous path. "Do you have an Aunt, maybe? Older sister?"

She nodded. "My sister... I can live with my sister."

"Okay, that's good." He said, shifting on the bed. "Art or Rachel will be here soon. You tell them everything you just told me, okay? They won't let you get hurt anymore."

She nodded again, biting her nails. "Okay."

He smiled gently. "Good."

A nurse poked her head in the open doorway. "Ah, Hope. We've been looking for you."

Hope shifted uncomfortably on the chair. "I'm sorry. I'll go back now."

She shot Raylan a grateful look and dashed out of the door. The nurse moved to follow her.

Raylan waved his hand, beckoning her over to the bed. "Keep an eye on her." He bit his lip, wondering how blunt to be. "I'm worried she might try to kill herself."


	27. Chapter 27

Author's note-

Sorry I've been missing the last couple of days. Nothing bad happened, just too much work to do. -Sigh- On the plus side, my hand is feeling much better. (Looks pretty nasty still though.)

Ooh, I wanted to ask if you find these notes annoying. I'll stop if you do. ;)

Hope you enjoy reading this!

Lou

Chapter Twenty Seven

Winter mist clung to the bases of the trees. Now and then, a gust of wind would blow it across the clearing in a skittering, twisting mass. It brushed against Art's legs, beading water on his trousers and shoes.

He ignored the minor discomfort, attention firmly fixed on the still, silent barn. Movement caught his eye. His gun was in his hand before his brain had finished processing the information. _Raylan would be so proud, _he thought dryly as he watched the big rabbit sniff the air then dart back into his burrow.

The mist thickened again, making his shiver as he holstered his gun and went back to watching the barn. A radio crackled somewhere to his right. He frowned, turning to look in that direction. The marshal held up one hand in silent apology, muting the radio.

He sucked in a harsh breath as something banged in the barn. The entry team behind him tensed, waiting for the order to go.

Art turned to Scott. "Your team. Your call," he murmured.

The other man smiled grimly. "You think they're in there?"

Art nodded. "I think they are." He glanced at the barn. "I just don't know if they're alive."

Scott nodded, clapping Art on the shoulder. "Okay. We'll go. Wait until we clear the building before you bring your team in."

He turned and signalled his men. They came forward on silent feet. The mist swirled around their legs. It made them look as if they were floating.

"Break a leg," Art muttered, watching tensely as they advanced on the barn. He unsnapped his holster, freeing his gun in case he needed it quickly.

Every person in the eight man was dressed in black, from head to toe. Each was heavily armed, guns holstered on belts and hanging from slings around necks. They made no sound as the crossed the rugged, open space.

They reached the barn in a few short seconds, each man taking his assigned spot. Scott eased towards the big sliding door and worked on the lock holding it closed. After a second, it dropped to the floor, cut clean through with a special tool.

The door screamed as the entry team forced it open. Sudden gunfire made everyone duck for cover. One of the entry team went down, clutching his leg with gloved hands.

Even from across the clearing, Art could see the blood. Another member of the team dragged him into cover before crouching to return fire.

A shadow moved in the doorway, muzzle flashes giving away his position. One of the black clad men lifted his gun, squeezing off a round that dropped the shadow to the ground.

More gunfire blasted from the window, tearing through the mist like tiny suns. The entry team returned fire, aiming high to cover the windows.

Someone screamed in the barn, a hoarse, pain-filled sound. A man staggered out of the open door, bleeding from a wound to his shoulder. He held a shotgun in one hand, swinging it around wildly.

"Put your gun down!" Scott roared. "Lay it down or we'll shoot!"

The man laughed madly and fired in Scott's direction. He fumbled another slug out of his ratty pocket, jamming it in the shotgun just before a shot dropped him to the floor. The shotgun landed with a dull thump next to his body.

Automatic gunfire shattered the temporary silence. The team ducked back into cover, blindly returning fire.

Tim scanned the barn with urgent eyes, spotting muzzle flash coming from the roof. He raised his mike to his mouth.

"The shooter is on the roof," he said. "Do you have a shot?"

"Negative," Scott replied, voice tense even over the bad line. "I do not have a shot. Take the bastard out if you can."

"Confirmed," Tim replied.

He pressed his eye to his rifle scope, finding his target easily. The sniper rifle coughed once, bullet hitting the man in the head with startling accuracy.

Tim grinned, pleased with the shot. "Target is down."

"Thanks, Tim," Scott muttered over the line. "Nice shot."

The clearing fell silent. Two men eased around the sides of the barn, ducking inside with their guns up. One came back to the door bare seconds later.

"It's clear! There are wounded girls in here!" he called. "We need to get them out, quickly. The whole place is rigged to blow."

Art exchanged a glance with Tim, then ran across the clearing. Both men skidded to a halt outside of the barn, peering in carefully.

The sight made Tim suck in a breath. "Oh, man. No way we're disarming that baby," he muttered. "How much time do we have?"

Twelve bound girls surrounded the large bomb, all bound by their wrist to rings set into the floor. Most looked unconscious, slumped in awkward positions.

A black clad man pressed a pair of bolt cutters into his hand. "Little over three minutes."

"Then we need to work fast. Tim and I will free the girls. Scott, can your men search the barn? There's an old woman missing too."

Scott nodded. "Half can. The other half will help with the girls."

"Fine." Art said, kneeling in front of an unconscious teen. He fitted the bolt cutters around the thin wire binding her, snipping it easily. A black clad man grabbed her arms and lifted her, running out of the barn with her as Art moved onto the next girl.

Tim did the same at the other side, cutting the wire then moving on quickly. His next girl was awake.

She screamed when she saw him. He grabbed her arms to stop her moving, cutting the wire as quickly as he could. "It's okay, miss. We're here to help." The wire broke and he moved onto the next girl. "Miss, you need to get the hell out of here right now. Run!"

She stared dumbly at Tim's face. Scott grabbed her arms, heaving her to her feet despite her struggles. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, running for the door as she screamed and moaned.

"Four more!" Art called. "Time?"

"One minute thirty!" one of the entry team called, crouching down at the other end of the line. He pulled out a tactical knife, using it to pry the wire apart. The girl slumped onto the floor. He didn't waste any time, just picked her up and ran.

"Three left!" Tim cut another wire binding, shaking the semi-conscious girl awake. He pointed towards the bright doorway. "Run!"

She needed no telling, scrambling to her feet and bolting away from him.

"Art!" a black clad man called. "Found the old woman. She's pretty bad."

"Get her out of here!" Art called, working on the next girl's bonds.

The girl coughed weakly as Scott picked her up. "Time's getting tight, Art!" he warned as he ran back towards the door.

Another black clad man ran past, cradling the old woman in his arms. Art glanced at them, then set to work freeing his last girl.

"Tim, how're you doing?" he grunted as the bolt cutters made short work of the wire.

"I'm good. You?" Tim asked, dropping his bolt cutters and bending to pick the girl up. He caught his balance, moving towards the door.

Halfway there, he stopped, realising that Art wasn't following him. "Art!" he yelled.

"I'm coming!" the older man shouted, staggering under this girl's weight. "Go!"

Tim handed his girl off to one of the entry team, turning back to help Art. They carried the girl between them, running for the door just as an automated voice started a ten second count-down.

They reached the clearing, sprinting for cover just as the voice reached five. The girl came to as they ducked behind a large rock. She screamed, struggling to get away.

Tim pinned her in place. "Stay still!" he hissed, grunting when she brought her hands up and pummelled his chest. "There's bomb. Stay still!"

An explosion ripped through the barn, throwing lethal shards of wood and other debris into the air. A piece of metal smacked into the rock, carving a huge gouge into the surface.

Art risked a glance over the rock, ducking back when something inside the burning structure exploded. "Well, there goes our evidence," he sighed.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's note-

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Things have been pretty crazy at work lately. (I did four countries in three days last week. Top tip- don't work in sales/training unless you like to travel.) Also, don't help your sister move if you have stitches in your hand. You will bleed on something and make her annoyed. :lol:

Glad that you like the notes. I wasn't sure if they put people off the chapter. :)

Anyway, I'll shut up and let you get onto what you're here for. :)

Lou

Chapter Twenty Eight

Rachel frowned at the computer screen, willing the financial records she was looking at to make sense. Approaching footsteps drew her eyes away from the screen. Tim held up a pair of coffee cups. A brown paper bag dangled from one hand.

"Anything?" Tim asked, and sat one of the paper cups of coffee on her desk. "I brought muffins too."

He rolled his own chair over to join her at the desk. She reached for the coffee, holding the cup as she spoke. "Nothing yet."

Tim opened the bag, taking out two muffins. "Blueberry or lemon poppy?"

"Lemon poppy," she said in a distracted tone, eyes running over the computer screen again.

He handed the muffin over and sipped his coffee, frowning a little when it burned his mouth. "These are the financial records for the owner of the barn?" he asked, nodding towards the screen.

"Yup." Rachel turned the screen so he could see it better. "These are the bank and credit records for the last listed owner of that barn. I've been going through them for a while now. At first, I thought he was our man, but now I'm not so sure." She clicked onto another page. "Two years ago, he emptied his bank account of ever last cent. There has been no activity since that transaction."

Tim swallowed a bite of muffin. "So either he got smart and opened an account in a name we don't know about, or he's dead."

Rachel shrugged. "Lots of places to hide a body in the backwoods."

They both stared glumly at the screen. Tim blew out a long breath and reached for the keyboard. "Let's see if old Mister Higgs has any living relatives."

Rachel held up a sheet of paper. "I checked that already. He has a daughter living in Los Angeles, and a son living in Salyersville. The son has a record- mostly small, petty stuff, though he did get arrested for beating a man half to death in a bar parking lot." She raised an eyebrow. "Strangely enough, none of the eye-witnesses would come forward to identify him."

Tim dropped his empty coffee cup in the bin. "Sounds like we should pay Mr Higgs Junior a visit. Ask him what he knows about his old man's money. We got an address?"

Rachel smiled and handed him a printed sheet. "We sure do."

He folded it in half and tucked it into his pocket. "Then let's go."

The phone rang just as Rachel reached for her jacket. She picked it up, holding it between her shoulder and her ear as slipped her arm into one sleeve. "Hello? Rachel Brooks speaking." She changed sides, and repeated the move, tugging on the hem of her jacket to straighten it. "Hello, Art. Any news from the Fire Marshal about the barn?"

"It's still too hot for them to even start looking," Art said and sighed. "Did you find anything from the name?"

"Yes and no." She nudged her mouse to get rid of the screen saver. "Financials are a bust- he emptied his account two years ago. There hasn't been any activity on it since. We tracked down some family though- Tim and I were just leaving to speak to the son. He's a low level thug out of Salyersville."

A car engine coughed to life in the background. "I'm heading over to the hospital to speak to the girls. They were all pretty shook up, but some of them may talk. I'll get the family information so we can start calling people."

Rachel nodded. "How's Raylan doing?"

"Last I heard, the doctor was talking about surgery to flush his shoulder."

She winced on reflex. "Well, let him know we're thinking about him if you see him, okay?"

"Okay," Art said. "Go speak to the son. See if you can shake anything useful out of him."

"I'll do my best," she said, and ended the call. "Art. The remains of the barn are still too hot for the Fire Marshal to go in. He's going to speak to the girls."

Tim shoved his chair back behind his desk and locked his computer. "Let's hope one of them heard a name or something useful."

Rachel held up her car keys. "Let's go and rattle Mr Higgs Junior's cage."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty Nine

Dusk drew long, wavering shadows across the road by the time Rachel and Tim reached the house. It sat on the edge of town, in huge, sprawling grounds. A tall stone wall ran around the outside, keeping the world at bay.

Tim parked the car on the other side of the street, turning his head to look at the property. The setting sun gave the pristine white paint an eerie pink glow.

"What does our boy do again?" Tim asked.

Rachel turned in her seat to grab a folder from the back seat, flicking through it until she found the sheet of paper she wanted. She angled it towards the sun to catch the last of the light.

"No current job listed," she said, and turned the page. "Last job was listed as a 'Wilderness Survival Instructor."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "How does someone with no job afford a house like this?"

A gleaming black Audi drove along the street, pulling up at the wrought iron gates. Rachel nodded towards it.

"Maybe he doesn't," she said and copied the car's number plate down before it vanished behind the high walls.

Tim pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial button for the office.

"Eastern Kentucky Marshal department, Ellie speaking. How may I direct your call?" A perky female voice asked.

"Ellie, it's Tim." He glanced at the scrap of paper. "I need you to run a plate for me."

The faint clatter of keystrokes reached him through the phone. "Okay."

"Car is a black Audi Q7," he said, and recited the plate number.

"Got it," she said.

More keystrokes clattered through the phone line as she typed in the information into the system.

Tim looked around, studying the area as he waited for the results. Tall, old trees grew along the side of the road, bare branches reaching towards the indigo sky. The grass in the few yards not hidden behind walls was well trimmed and bordered by flowering shrubs, sleeping for the winter.

"Got a match, Tim." Ellie said.

"Go on." Tim tapped his cell to activate the speakerphone. "You're on speaker."

She cleared her throat nervously. "Okay. The car is registered to a Mister Hart. He owns a chain of hardware stores across the state."

Tim and Rachel exchanged confused glances. "Ellie, does he have a record?" Rachel asked.

"No," Ellie answered. "Not even a parking ticket."

"Thanks, Ellie," Tim said.

"I'll keep digging," she offered. "I'll send what I find to your phone."

"Can't wait to see what turns up," Tim said dryly, and ended the call.

Rachel and Tim exchanged another look and got out of the car. They slammed the doors at almost the same time.

The night air had turned cold and crisp. Far above their heads, the stars had started to peek though the sky.

Their footsteps broke the silence as they walked towards the gates. Tim reached out and pressed the buzzer. It was made from copper, finely polished so that it shone even in the dim light. The inlay around it was some kind of glittery black stone.

"Hart residence. How may I help you?" A crisp male voice asked.

"Sir, we're with the Marshal's service. We need to speak to Mr. Hart."

Silence echoed down the line for a beat. "I'll inform Mr. Hart that you wish to speak to him," the voice said stiffly.

They waited in silence, breath steaming in the cold air until the gate buzzed open a few minutes later. The intercom crackled again.

"Please come in. Just follow the driveway up to the house."

They stepped through the gate together and crunched up the gravel drive. Bare trees stretched their branches towards the sky like skeletal fingers. Water tinkled gently in the distance. A glint of silver in the darkness of the lawn hinted at a pond or a swimming pool.

"Nice place. Little big," Tim muttered as they rounded the last gently curve and reached the house.

It sat at a right angle to the street, so the rear windows overlooked the sprawling grounds. The hardwood doors held a brightly coloured stained glass window. Rachel rang the doorbell, tucked discretly to one side, and studied the window, trying to figure out the pattern.

The mass of swirling blues and twisting yellows suddenly made sense to her. She smiled, finding the stylised image oddly pleasing.

She shivered as the wind picked up. Tim reached past her and rang the bell again. The door opened a bare second later.

A tall, dark haired woman stood in the hallway. She frowned at them. "It's a big house, Marshal. It takes time to reach the front door."

Rachel smiled, stepping in between them. "I love your stained glass."

The dark haired woman smiled, just a little. "Thank you. It's my design. A sunrise over the water... Wait, where are my manners? " She shook her head, stepping back to let them enter the hallway. "I'm sorry, I was up all night with the baby. I didn't want the bell to wake him again." She held out her hand. "I'm Emory Hart. Jonathan is my husband."

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Hart," Rachel said, and shook her hand. Tim smiled and took her hand, shaking it briefly.

"Please, follow me," Emory said. She led them down a hallway and into a small, cosy sitting room. It was decorated in shades of yellow and cream, with rich fabrics and supple leather furniture. "Sit, please. Would you like anything to drink? Tea, coffee?"

"Coffee would be great," Tim said, and took a seat on a butter soft leather couch.

Emory nodded. "John won't be long. He'd been to see his horses." She smiled wryly. "I sent him to change. I'll be back shortly with your coffee."

She ducked back into the hallway.

"Well, she's worried about something," Tim muttered.

"Maybe she's just nice," Rachel countered.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention to the doorway. A tall, grey haired man walked into the room, shirt cuffs undone and pushed halfway up his arms. He folded the back as they watched.

"I'm Jonathan Hart. I understand that you want to speak to me," he said quietly and took a seat.

Tim clasped his hands together and leaned forward a little. "We're looking for a man called Mr Leroy Higgs. His records indicate that he lives at this address."

John frowned. "Ah, yes. Mr Higgs." His face twisted with distaste for a second before he won back control. "Yes, he lives here. I'd much rather that he didn't, to be honest." He shrugged.

"Why does Mr Higgs live here?" Rachel asked.

The rattle of china broke into the conversation. Emory walked through the door carrying a loaded tray. John stood and took it from her, setting it down on a low table.

"Thanks, hon," she murmured. She passed coffee cups around, gesturing at the cream and sugar. "I'll let you add your own. I don't drink coffee, and John is always telling me that I add too much."

She glanced at her husband, a small smile playing about her lips. He picked up her hand and pressed a quick kiss against her palm.

"What were we talking about?" John asked, "Oh, why Higgs lives here."

Emory blinked, smile fading from her lips. "He's the father of our grandson."

"Did he force your daughter into a relationship? Is he ever violent with her?" Rachel asked softly.

The couple exchanged a shocked glance. "Goodness, no. They are very much in love," Emory said. "May I ask what this is about?"

"We had evidence connecting Higgs to a prostitution ring," Tim said. "We'd like to speak to him about some property he owns."

John nodded. "I'll see if he's in." He left the room.

The ear splitting wail of a baby in distress tore through the house. Emory sighed and stood up. "My daughter is working away. I'm left looking after the baby, and of course, he has colic this week."

Un-ease nagged at Tim. "Can we come with you?"

Emory frowned, then shrugged. "Of course. Maybe you can get the baby to sleep."

They followed her down a short hallway and up a flight of stairs.

"I'm surprised you don't have any staff," Rachel commented. "Most houses of this size depend on them."

Emory pushed a door open. "We've always managed with just..." the sentence trailed off as she stared at something in shock.

"They're not taking my baby away from me!" A short, stocky man screamed, pointing a gun towards the door. "Both of you, leave now or I'll blow your fucking heads off!"


	30. Chapter 30

Author's Note-

Wow, we're at chapter thirty! I never thought this story would get this far. :D It was going to be a much shorter piece when I first started it. Hope you're all still enjoying it, and thank you for the reviews. They make my day when I read them. :)

Anyway, I'll shut up and let you get on reading. ;) :)

Lou

Chapter Thirty

Pain woke him from a sleep so deep it was like drowning. He lay in the darkness for a moment, caching his breath. The last traces of some strange dream trickled slowly from his mind. It left him feeling shaken, though he couldn't say why. _Not your usual nightmare then, eh? _He thought mockingly. His muscles felt stiff and achy, from laying still for too long. He stretched carefully, listening to his bones crack and pop.

The clouds over the moon parted, spilling thin silver light into the room. It washed over his skin, turning it ghostly pale and let him see the dark patches on his bandages he knew was blood. He flexed his injured arm and winced at the sharp pain.

Sleep tugged at him insistently. The drugs the doctor had prescribed knocked him out, leaving him feeling groggy and weak for much of the day. With a sigh, he shifted a little, finding a more comfortable position. His eyes drifted closed as he gave in to the nagging exhaustion.

Seconds or hours later, a small, out of place noise brought him awake in an instant, eyes darting around the room. The silver moonlight outlined the silhouette of a man by the window. Raylan squinted at the figure, breath coming short and quick in his chest when he spotted the gun. Light reflected on the barrel.

"So you're awake," the man said without turning. "Don't bother to call for help. The guard outside your door is dead. I'll kill anyone who comes into this room. Do you understand me?"

Eyes wide, Raylan nodded. "I do."

The wind changed direction, rattling the glass in the window frames. It moaned, low and long as it blew past the building. Somewhere, far away in the building, a woman screamed. The noise made him shudder.

"Not going to ask me who I am?" The man at the window asked. His shoulders moved as he twisted something in his hands.

Carefully, the injured man sat up in bed, throwing the sheets off his feet. The sudden cold made him shiver.

"I'd ask if I thought you'd answer me," Raylan said dryly.

"Ask anyway." He shrugged. "You never know. I might just answer."

Raylan lifted an eyebrow. "Who are ya?"

The man laughed, splaying a gloved hand against the windowpane. "Someone who knows a lot more about you than you'll ever know about me."

The bed creaked as Raylan swung his legs over the edge of it. His bare feet touched the cold floor. It made him flinch.

"Stop moving about so much." The man clicked the safety off his gun. "You're making me very nervous. I don't think you want to do that."

Raylan froze. "I guess I don't."

The man turned away from the window, keeping the gun aimed at the floor. "I'm here because you are causing too much trouble for my employer. You need to let this case drop or I'll kill you."

Raylan bit the inside of his lip. "I'm not working the case."

The man lashed out with sudden speed, driving his fist into Raylan's injured shoulder.

The world went white. Raylan choked on a breath, nausea rolling in his gut from the pain. It brought tears to his eyes. Beads of perspiration ran down his face as he clenched his good hand in the sheet. Blood welled under the bandages, dripping from the wound in a slow, viscous path.

The man watched dispassionately. "Breathe. It'll help."

Raylan glared at him, pain still too biting for him to speak. He gritted his teeth, forcing a breath past the agony that seemed to be spreading all over his body.

"My boss is a very busy man, Mr Givens, as rich men are apt to be. You are spoiling his business by asking all of these tiresome questions."

The red haze faded from his vision. Raylan sucked in a clean breath. "Tell your boss to stop running a prostitution racket and we'll think about it."

The man laughed darkly. "You think that is all this is about? Oh, no. My boss has his fingers in many more pies." He walked over to the bed, crouching in front of Raylan. "Including one you are _very _familiar with. Would you like to guess what that is?"

Raylan tilted his head, trying to make out the man's features. The light came from behind him, throwing his face into shadow. "I'd like you just to drop all of these bullshit games and tell me what the hell you want."

"I've told you what I want." He stood, leaning close to whisper in Raylan's ear. "I want you to stop disturbing my boss' business."

"I think it's a little late to try to scare me off," Raylan muttered.

"We have Hope," the strange man said. "Back off this or we'll kill her."

Ice chilled Raylan's veins at the words. "It's not my call to make."

"Well, then, I hope you weren't too fond of her." The man laughed darkly and pulled a syringe from his pocket.

Raylan moved, backing away. The man shook a finger at him, raising the gun so it was pointed directly at Raylan's heart. "Don't worry. It won't harm you. It's just my special blend." He pulled the cap off with his teeth and injected the contents into Raylan's IV line.

It robbed the taller man of breath. He staggered backwards, crashing into the wall. "What did you do to me?" he panted, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

The strange man leaned close to him, letting the light wash over his face. Raylan gasped with surprise. The man smiled and patted his shoulder. "There, now. Don't worry. It'll all be over soon."

He walked away, leaving Raylan sitting on the floor, fighting for every breath.


	31. Chapter 31

Author's note-

Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. My muse is prodding me towards writing another novel. A historical novel. It's weird, because I usually don't write historical anything. Too much research! ;)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Everything is starting to kick off now. :D It's gonna be an explosive few chapters.

Lou

Chapter Thirty One

Hope clawed at the wooden walls around her, every breath tasting stale and sour in her mouth. Her nails were torn to shreds, blood painting her skin in vivid streaks. Exhausted tears rolled down her cheeks.

A noise outside of the small box made her pause, made her jam her ear against the warm wood and strain to hear. The distant beat of footsteps sparked hope in her chest. The lid opened, spilling bright white light into her small prison. Her eyes burned as they struggled to adjust to the sudden change.

She shrank back, leaning away from the figure standing outside. He smiled grimly at her and caught her arm, yanking her upright. Pins and needles shot through her cramped legs.

"I have a job for you, Hope," the man said. "If you refuse to do it I'll lock you back in that box and leave you there to rot."

Hope nodded, trembling. "What do you want me to do?"

He dragged her towards a table laden with clothes. Shoes littered the floor under it. "Find something to wear. You're going to deliver a package for me."

Hope stared at the table. The bright, rich colours seemed unreal after being locked in the silent darkness for so long. He slapped her, hand striking her cheek with enough force to knock her from her feet.

"I said, get dressed," he said in a slow, measured voice. Anger simmered under the words.

She scrambled away from him, using the table to pull herself to her feet. "Where am I going?"

"Back to your friends, the US Marshals." He raised an eyebrow. "If there's any of them left in this Godforsaken state, that is."

He crossed to the table and dragged his hand through the clothes there, yanking out a pale blue dress. Beads around the neckline reflected the light, throwing it across Hope's face in shades of blue and violet.

"Put this on," he ordered and threw it at her.

She caught it with one hand, crumpling the silky fabric. "I need underwear," she said quietly. "Please."

Fabric rustled against plastic as he grabbed a box from under the table and thrust it at her. "I'm sure something in there will be your size," he snarled. "Find it and get dressed. We're running out of time."

_Time for what?_ She thought as she sorted through the box, finally coming up with a bra a size too small and panties in an ugly shade of violet.

She turned her back, slipping the panties on under the shapeless hospital gown she wore. Quickly, before she could think about it too much, she let the gown drop and reached for the bra, fastening it behind her back.

"I never would've figured someone in your profession being shy," the man said sarcastically.

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away before turning and picking up the dress, sliding it over her head. The words she wanted but dared not say burned in her chest. "Shoes?" she asked, voice low and hoarse.

He kicked a pair of silver strappy sandals towards her and watched impatiently as she struggled with the tiny, fiddly buckles.

Finished at last, she straightened and faced him. He ran his eyes over her like he was examining a side of beef and grunted. "You'll do."

She stared at him, fear creeping into her eyes. "Where are we going?"

"I'm not going anywhere." He thrust a small, heavy box at her. "You're taking this to your friends, the Marshals."

Her fingers tightened on the box, cardboard warm against her sweating fingers. Some instinct, some primitive part of her brain was screaming at her to run, to escape and not look back. Her hands trembled, broken nails leaving smears of blood on the pristine brown cardboard.

She knew without looking what was inside of the box. It made nausea roll in her stomach, made a cold sweat break out all over her body.

He caught the look in her eyes and laughed. The sound rolled from him as if it would never stop, as if he had no control over it.

She looked closer at him, meeting his eyes for a second before flinching away, fear racing through her. Madness lurked in his eyes, tightly reined, but straining to break free. She looked down at the box and wondered if it would be the thing to break the leash.

He stopped laughing abruptly and grabbed her by the wrist. She struggled to keep up, tottering on the highest heels she had ever worn, desperate not to drop the box. Desperate to get away, yet knowing her only escape would be death. Knowing it, and welcoming it into her heart.

She looked at the box again and knew there would be no going back from this. No turning away from the things she was about to set in motion. No stopping the landslide her actions would create.

Her eyes burned, but she couldn't cry. There were no tears left inside of her. She had used them all up, spent them on other things. The time for tears had past. There would be enough wept for her once she had gone.

Stairs loomed in front of her, swaying dangerously in her sight as she started down them. His tight grip on her arm kept her on her feet as he knees weakened. They reached the bottom of the stairs.

He prodded her forward, towards a badly peeling door set into a bare brick wall. The door squealed as he pulled it open. It led outside. She blinked in the weak sunshine, wondering if it would be the last time she would feel it on her skin.

He forced her inside of a car. She watched the streets tear past in a blur, gaze fixed on the box that was going to change so very many things.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty Two

Raylan forced a breath past his lips, ignoring the way it made his chest burn like he'd been drinking fire. Another and the fire grew, trying to consume him. He forced the feeling to the back of his mind, locking it into a little box and throwing away the key like he had with so many other things. Another breath, and this time the pain didn't seem so bad. The air helped, a little. The red haze growing in his eyes thinned a little, letting him see the bed.

It looked impossibly far away. He gritted his teeth and tipped onto his side. The cold floor chilled his knees as he forced himself up onto all fours, crawling towards the bed. The motion sent pain roaring through his shoulder and wrist. Something warm and wet trickled down his side, leaving a trail on the floor as he inched forward.

He ignored the blood. It didn't matter. What mattered was reaching the bed, and the call button hanging next to it. The pain grew, bringing tears to eyes already burning from fighting for every precious breath. Darkness swirled around his sight, dimming the room to twilight.

Another breath tore through his chest like it was laced with broken glass. He licked his lips, tasting his own blood on them. He could take it. He'd learned how a long time ago... countless hours spent silent and hurting after a beating that he neither deserved or could prevent.

His head brushed against the sheet. Sweet relief sang through him as he knelt, feeling for the call button. The plastic felt hard and cold under his sweating hand. He held it to his heaving chest, hands shaking so much he had to steady the small box on the floor before he could depress the button.

It made no sound. He didn't know if it was working, but kept his thumb jammed on it anyway. Truth be told, he didn't have the energy to move.

The room tilted as he slumped sideways, crashing onto the floor. It hurt, in a distant, far off way. The tightness in his chest grew until it felt like it was crushing him. The part of him that would never give up dragged in another breath, forcing the air past the blood in his mouth. His ribs heaved, every movement more painful than the last.

A hand touched his neck. It made him want to jerk away, hide in the darkness where he felt safe.

"Raylan?" a distant voice asked. More words followed, but he didn't have the energy to figure them out. "Raylan!"

Darkness fell. The cold at his back went away as he moved, floating up onto something soft. Noises and feeling and smell all blurred into one jarring sensation. Words rumbled over him like wheels on a rutted track.

The distant sting of a needle sent sweet relief rushing through him. The pressure on his chest eased a little. It was enough for him to get a decent breath. Enough to quiet the rushing in his ears.

He forced his eyes open, realising he was laid on a bed. A nurse placed an oxygen mask on his face.

She saw he was awake and smiled. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."

He sucked in a deep breath, savouring the feeling and nodded. "Dark haired man. You see him?"

The nurse stared at him, bewildered. "There was no man, Raylan. Just you. Can you tell us what happened?"

He gritted his teeth. "Dark haired man. Came in. Injected me with something. Has Hope."

The effort left him spent and panting. Anger flared low in his chest at his own weakness. His body was letting him down again. It always did. It always would, when the abuse... when the damage got so bad there was no other option. That didn't make him any happier about it.

He reached out with an arm so weak that it shook and grabbed the doctor's sleeve. "Phone Art. Please." The words came out as a sigh.

She gave him a look like he wasn't making any sense. "Your boss?" she asked, making a note of something on her clipboard before adjusting his oxygen mask. "I'll get someone to call for you."

He coughed. It racked his wiry frame, making him shudder as he tried to draw a breath and couldn't. Living through that nightmare once had been bad enough. He wasn't sure if he could do it twice.

"Raylan. Listen to me," the doctor ordered, voice pitched low and calm. "You're fine. You can breathe. Just relax. Count with me. One, two, three..."

He closed his eyes, aching tension running through all of his muscles as he fought to do what she asked. Slowly, the iron bands around his ribs relaxed. He sucked in a careful breath, grateful when it didn't make his chest spasm.

A noise made him look up. The doctor came back into the room. "Your boss is on his way here now." She lifted an eyebrow. "He wanted me to remind you how much paperwork he has to fill in every time you get injured."

Raylan lifted both of his eyebrows, feeling exhaustion dragging at him. He lifted the mask off his face. "How can I forget?" he said faintly.

The doctor smiled and slid a fresh pair of gloves onto her hands. "We need to run some tests, find out what caused this attack." She picked up a needle and an elastic band. "I need to draw some blood. We'll also be doing some breathing tests on you."

"There was a man in here. He injected me with something," Raylan said and pulled up his sleeve to show her the injection site.

A large, vividly coloured bruise spread over most of his bicep. She probed it with gentle, professional hands, anger lighting her eyes.

"Guess we'd better check the security tapes," she muttered.

He tilted his head. "Guess you'd better."


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty Three

The sharp ring of a cell phone broke the tense silence. The tune seemed jarring, too cheerful for the situation. It made them all jump. The baby started crying, shrill wails competing with the lower tone of the cell phone.

Higgs jerked, the gun shaking in his hands. "Turn that off!" Higgs screamed. "Turn it off right fucking now!"

His face was red with anger, veins standing out on his neck as he shouted. The gun trembled in his hands as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Tim tore his eyes away from the man holding a gun on him, knowing it was a bad idea yet having to do it anyway. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, powered it down and dropped it onto the floor.

"There. It's off." Tim nodded towards the baby. "Why not let Emory take the baby next door so we can talk? We're not here to take him from you. I promise."

The muzzle of the gun dipped a little. "I don't believe you!" Higgs said, eyes darting from Tim's face to Rachel's.

Rachel moved her shirt, displaying the badge clipped to her belt. "We're deputy US Marshals. We're here to talk to you about some land you own."

He leaned forward to see the badge more clearly. Rachel held it out towards him. His eyes raked over the silver star before dropping away. She clipped the badge back to her belt.

Higgs flicked his gaze at her. "What land are you talking about?"

"It may have been your father's. There was a barn on it," Tim supplied.

The short man blinked, confused. "I leased that to Mr. Hart after my Pa died. He said that he needed it for storage." He stared at the gun. "You're really not here to take my baby?"

"No," Rachel said flatly. "We're really not here to take the baby."

Higgs let the gun drop. "It wasn't loaded," he offered as Tim snatched the weapon from his hands. "I don't want to hurt anyone. That's why I've been working for Mr Hart."

Emory nodded. "He's a fantastic worker."

Rachel flashed her a distracted smile. "Why don't you take the baby and wait for us downstairs? We need to speak to your husband, too."

Tim stooped and picked his cell phone up as Emory hurried past to take the baby from the crib. She rubbed his back as she turned and walked out of the door.

Higgs sagged against the wall. "I've really screwed up, haven't I?" he asked, voice full of sorrow.

"Maybe not," Tim said. "Tell us about the land."

He moved closer to the other man, forcing eye contact. Rachel slipped quietly out of the room, cell phone in her hand as she checked her calls.

"Like I said, I leased the barn to Mr. Hart after my Dad died." He shrugged. "I had no use for the place. Figured I might as well make a bit of money from it. Mr. Hart said he needed for storage, so it worked out for both of us."

"When was this?"

Higgs frowned, nervously rubbing his hands together. "Maybe two, three years ago? Not more than that." He nodded to himself, scratching his arm absently. "'Course, the way his business has been going lately, I figured he'd end the contract. I asked him about it, and he said he'd started up something else... didn't say what, but the money arrived just in time."

Rachel stared at him. "You're saying that Mr. Hart's business is failing, and that he suddenly found a new source of income?"

"Yes, ma'am." Higgs nodded. "I asked him about it, but he didn't want to tell me, and I didn't press. He has a nasty temper, and I was worried that he'd make me leave my family. I may have screwed up before, but I'm going to do right by them now."

"I understand that," Tim said, tone indicating the opposite. Higgs didn't seem to notice. "We need you to come to the office with us and make a statement."

Higgs stared at Tim, worry in his eyes. "Is it going to get Mr. Hart into trouble?"

Rachel shook her head. "Not unless he's been doing something wrong."

"When?" Higgs asked. "It's my turn to look after the baby tonight."

"Don't worry about that. We'll make sure you're both taken care of," Rachel said. "We'll go now, okay?"

Higgs followed her as she left the room. Tim tagged along behind, keeping a wary eye on the other man in case he had any stupid ideas.

The trio made it to the sitting room without any problems. Emory had laid a padded mat on the floor. The baby sat on it, chewing a brightly coloured stuffed toy.

"Emory, we need to speak to your husband. Do you know where he is?" Rachel asked.

The other woman frowned. "He said he was going into the kitchen. That was a few minutes ago. I haven't seen him since then."

"Which way is the kitchen?" Tim asked, "I'll go and get him so we can get out of your hair."

She smiled, but alarm was starting to show in her eyes. "Is something wrong, Marshal?" She stood, putting a hand to her chest. "Do I need to call my lawyer?"

Tim held out a placating hand. "No, ma'am. Nothing like that. We just have a few quick questions for him. It's nothing to worry about."

Emory sat back down. Worry still showed on her face. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger. "Fourth door on the right. Takes you into the kitchen."

Tim nodded once and walked towards the door, keeping his pace slow so not to alarm her. Once he reached the hallway, he dropped all pretence and hurried towards the right door. It stung open under his light touch, letting him into a kitchen bigger than some of the houses he'd lived in.

The airy room was empty. He walked through it slowly, one hand on his gun. A noise drew him towards a tucked away door. It hung open. Cold air blew threw it fitfully, letting Tim know it led outside.

He stepped through it, finding himself in a large, dimly lit garage. Rain blew in through the open rolling doorway. A minivan took up one space. Motorbikes lined the far wall. A washer and dryer rumbled in a small nook, the sound drowning out any other noise. The big black Audi was parked next to the door.

"Mr. Hart?" Tim called. "I'm just here to talk, okay?" He slid his gun from his holster and walked carefully across the garage.

The driver's side window shattered as the bullet tore through it. It grazed Tim's arm, spinning him around. The noise made his ears ring. He raised his own gun, squeezing off a couple of rounds as the car sprang from the garage. The big Audi skidded around the first bend on the drive, chunky tires throwing up clouds of gravel as it fought for grip.

Another bullet tore a hole in the tiles at Tim's feet. He ducked back, cursing, as he watched the car vanish out of his sight.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty Four

Icy rain peppered the window. Art paused to watch it for a few seconds before he turned and started pacing across the room, every step stiff with frustrated anger. Raylan watched him walk for a few more trips before he spoke.

"I want my gun," the younger man said flatly, as if he'd been saying the same thing for hours.

His throat felt as if he had. The drug from the night before had left his throat sore and scratchy. His arm ached where he had been injected. The bruise almost wrapped around his whole arm, spreading in strange and mottled shades of blue and dark green.

Art stopped walking in the middle of the room and turned to face the bed. His shoes squeaked on the tile floor. "No, Raylan." He shook his head for extra effect "You're injured. It's not a good idea."

Raylan let out a breath, careful not to irritate his sore lungs. His chest ached, vaguely, though he could hardly tell it apart from all the other aches and pains. "You've seen me take down a man in worse shape than this."

The other man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was a long time ago, Raylan."

Raylan closed his eyes for a beat, opening them again when the darkness behind his eyelids threatened to swallow him whole. "Art, please," he said, eyes fixed on his hands. It was the closest he'd ever came to begging, and both of them knew it.

Art's footsteps echoed lightly on the walls as he started pacing again. Raylan counted twenty trips between door and window before his boss spoke again.

"It's just one more day, right?" Art asked. "Twenty four more hours until they'll let you leave?"

"Yes." Raylan glanced ruefully at his IV line. "One more day of antibiotics. Plus a week of steroids for my lungs," he said, and stifled a cough as the dry air caught the back of his throat. He reached for the cup of water on the side table, wishing it was something much stronger.

"I should put a guard outside of your door," Art muttered.

Raylan shook his head, sickness rolling thorough his gut. "After what happened to the last one?" He shook his head again, more forcefully, ignoring the way it made the room spin. "That man will ever walk again because he was outside of my door."

Art turned his back towards the window, studying Raylan.

The younger man was slumped against the flat hospital pillows, a thin sheet and blanket covering his body to his lower chest. His eyes held an air of wildness that his exhaustion couldn't quite hide. Every noise brought a flicker of motion over his skin as his muscles, flexed, tensing for danger.

It was as close to broken as Art had ever seen the other man, and it was as close to it as he ever wanted to see. _Anyone else, and I wouldn't even consider giving them a gun,_ Art thought. He wasn't sure why, but Raylan was different. He always had been.

"Your back-up gun is in my car safe. I'll get it for you before I leave," Art said, finally.

Profound relief flickered through Raylan's eyes and vanished as it if had never been there. Some of the tension drained from his body. "Thank you."

"I'm also putting two guards outside of this door." He held up a hand to stop Raylan's protest before it could start. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

Raylan nodded tiredly. "Fine." He bit the inside of his lip, thinking. "Any word on Hope?"

Art pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen before he answered the question. "Nothing yet." He rubbed his forehead with the side of his thumb. "The security cameras show her leaving with a man who looks like her father. Her mother doesn't know where either of them are. It's being treated as a suspected abduction. Everyone is looking for her."

Raylan nodded, gut telling him this would not have a good outcome. The thought sent a wash of cold through him, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. _Happy endings are just for fairy tales, right?_ He mocked himself.

"What about the other girls? Did they give us anything useful?" he asked, shoving the dark thoughts to the back of his mind.

"They seem to be recovering well. We're going through their statements now."

A ghost of a smile touched Raylan's lips. "That's good. How is the old woman?"

Art sucked in a breath. "She died. the doctor think the stress was too much for her heart."

The nagging feeling that things were going to go bad deepened. "Her daughter was the coroner. They snatched her to make her daughter work with them." Raylan shook his head, "There's too many people dying because of this."

Art held his silence for the moment, letting Raylan talk, knowing that the younger man needed to vent his anger before it consumed him. "Christ, Art. What happens if we can't stop this?"

The older man dropped into a chair, stretching his legs out and eyed the other man carefully. This self doubt wasn't like Raylan. Art figured it was the pain or the exhaustion or the sheer damned stress talking. The last week had been tough, by anyone's standards.

"It's falling apart at the seams now." He shrugged. "There's not that many of them left. One of them will break and start talking to us. We just have to keep pressing them until it happens."

Raylan nodded, eyes still shadowed with doubt. "Yeah," he said quietly, gaze trailing towards the window. "I just hope it happens before anyone else gets killed."


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty Five

Higgs slumped at the interview desk, hand cramping as he wrote another page of his statement. His handwriting was neat, but basic, block capitals that slanted a little to the left. He paused, reading back over the lines he'd just written, checking every word carefully before crossing a line out and rewriting it at the bottom of the page.

Guilt and relief wound around each other in his chest. The churning emotions made him feel exhausted, washed out. He read over the pages again, a grim smile coming to his face as he thought about what they had the power to do.

Finally satisfied, he signed his name at the bottom of each page and then pushed the thick stack across the table towards Tim.

The deputy marshal had one arm in a sling, a bulky bandage covering his wound. "This everything?" he asked shortly, picking the pages up.

Higgs nodded. "Everything that I know." His eyes dropped to the sling. "How's your arm?"

Tim flexed his fingers gingerly, feeling the dressing pull across his upper arm. "Just a flesh wound. Nothing to worry about."

Higgs chewed his bottom lip. "Why the sling?" he pressed, the let his eyes drop to the table, a slight blush colouring his cheeks.

Tim raised an eyebrow. "You my nurse now?" he asked.

The other man shook his head, holding his hands up. "No. Sorry... I was just asking, okay?" he muttered and looked away, playing with a scrap of paper on the scarred table.

"It's so the bandages don't move too much. They couldn't suture it. Not enough skin over the wound," Tim said after a few second's silence. "Any more questions, or can I go and do my job now?"

Higgs shook his head. "I'm glad you're okay. Mr. Hart can't be thinking straight. He's never done anything like this before. Never."

Tim shouldered the door open, nodding to the guard on the other side. "Yeah, me too," he muttered.

The fresher air of the hallway felt like a crisp sea breeze as Tim hurried back to his desk, eager to start the ball rolling on the warrants.

A young blonde girl stood outside of the office doors, gazing doubtfully inside. She carried a small cardboard box.

Tim stopped next to her. "Hi. You're Hope, right?" he asked and smiled. "Looking for someone?"

Misery filled her eyes. "He sent me here with this." She turned her back on the security cameras. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I had no choice."

Tim stared at her. "Hope, what's in that box?"

A wave of tears raced down her cheeks. "I think it's a bomb."

Shock roared through Tim, turning the world soundless for a long beat. His pulse jack hammered under his breastbone, heart racing. He snapped his mouth closed and pulled out his gun, using the handle to smash the closest fire alarm.

Sirens wailed, filling the building with noise and rushing people. Someone jostled Hope. Her eyes widened as the box shook.

Tim eased his injured arm from his sling, dropping it to the floor, and drew her aside, into an empty office.

"How is it triggered?" he asked, forcing eye contact with her.

She didn't answer him, lost in her own little world of misery. He grabbed her arms, wanting to shake her, then thought better of it, taking hold of her chin instead. The contact made her eyes track slowly to his face.

"Hope. How is the bomb triggered?" he asked again, voice laced with urgency.

More tears raced down her cheeks. "I don't know!"

Tim nodded once, tensely. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, wincing as the movement chaffed his wound. The pain vanished under the haze of adrenaline as he glanced at the box again. He jammed his thumb down on a speed dial button.

The phone rang three times before Art answered. "We have a situation here, boss." Tim said and glanced at Hope. "Hope's here. Says she was forced to bring a box into the building. She thinks there's a bomb inside of it."

Art sucked in a breath. "Where are you now?" His voice turned distant as he spoke to someone in the background. "Phone the bomb squad. Send them to our building. Tim thinks there's a bomb."

Tim slid the bolt home on the door, stopping anyone from coming in. "Little office just down the hallway from ours. The building is being evacuated. I hit the fire alarm."

Hope sniffed hard, getting her emotions back under control. "Do you think I can put it down?" She glanced down at the box. "It's getting kind of heavy."

Tim shook his head. "No, Hope. The trigger might be in the base."

"Okay." She nodded, but he could see that she wasn't going to be able to hold on for much longer. Her arms had started to shake under the strain.

He switched the phone onto loudspeaker and laid it on the table, angled into the room.

"Any news on the bomb squad, Art?" Tim asked.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since he laid eyes on the box, yet a glance at his watch told him it had been bare minutes. His shirt clung to his back as perspiration dampened his skin. The room was cold, and it made him shudder.

"They're on their way to you now. Be with you in about twenty minutes," Art said. "They want to know if you can see any wires or lights through the box."

Tim studied it carefully, crouching to look at the base. The light was too dim for him to make out any details, so he reached across, taking the lamp from the table. Metal shone on the base of the box.

"There's something on the base. Looks like a metal spike," Tim said, "I can't see any wires or lights though. The box is taped shut."

Art relayed the information. "Okay Tim. Just stay calm, both of you. They think that the bomb is supposed to be triggered when it's set down. It should be stable as long as you don't put it down or turn it."

A car door slammed in the background. The engine fired, sounding loud even over the open phone line.

Tim gritted his teeth and laid his hands over Hope's. He could feel her shaking as he took some of the box's weight. Her skin felt cold, clammy with perspiration. Her chest rose and fell in quick, short breaths. He could practically feel the fear rolling from her.

Up close, her eyes looked huge and bloodshot. Faint, old bruises dotted her pale skin. The split in her lip looked raw, like it had been broken open again just before it healed. She blinked, chasing the tears from her eyes.

"What do we do now?" Hope asked, bleak despair in her eyes.

Tim tightened his hands, just a little. "Now we wait."


	36. Chapter 36

Author's note-

I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. I've been having a bit of a rough week. I came home on Monday night and found my fiance in my bed with another woman. Kinda guttd me, ya know? Needless to say, things didn't go very well for any of us. I decided to move out and have been looking for another apartment. It's been keeping me away from writing.

Anyway, enough about my problems. Here's the chapter. Hope that you enjoy it. :)

Lou

Chapter Thirty Six

Raylan stared at himself in the smeared mirror, wondering when he'd started to look so gaunt and tired and just plain... old. He dropped his eyes to the sink, pressing the plug into place and starting the water running. Careful not to get his IV wet, he let the water run over his fingers. Once the sink had filled, he dropped a washcloth into the water.

His hands shook a little as he untied the laces on the gown and shrugged it off, leaving himself standing dressed only in a pair of PJ bottoms he hadn't worn since his last stay in hospital.

"Marshal Givens?" one on his guards called from the doorway.

"Yeah?" Raylan called back, wondering which of them it was.

They were both short, stocky men, with calluses on their gun hands and eyes hardened by the years they had spent doing the job.

"Your doctor is here, Marshal Givens," the man called through the room. "Shall I let him in?"

Raylan raised his eyebrows, wondering just what Art had told the man to make him ask that question. He dropped the washcloth back into the sink, splashing water over himself and glanced at the crumpled gown.

"Sure. Just give me a second to put a shirt on," he called back as he left the bathroom.

He reached the bed and perched on it, reaching carefully into the locker for his bag. His spine cracked as he leaned forward, tugging the bag out onto the floor. The white sleeveless shirt was on the top. He pulled it out and slipped it over his head, working his IV bag through the arm with care.

"Marshal Givens, can I ask you a question?"

Raylan looked up from smoothing his shirt, brow creasing as he met the other man's eyes. "Call me Raylan and I'll think about it," he said with tired smile.

The other man shook his head, amused. "Well, in that case, you'd better start calling me James."

Raylan stretched carefully, feeling the stiffness from spending too much time staying still finally start to leave his muscles. "What was the question?"

James opened his mouth, closing it again and shaking his head as the door opened. "It'll keep."

Doctor Carter followed the other guard into the room, carrying a closed chart in his hands. "Hi, Raylan. How are you feeling?"

Raylan frowned, glancing at James. He felt as though he was missing something, and it bugged him. He shoved the feeling away, turning his attention back to the doctor. "I feel fine." He held the hand with the IV up. "You come to unhook me?"

The doctor moved to the foot of the bed, flipping quickly through Raylan's chart. "Temp has been normal for the last two days. Blood work looks good. No sign of the infection coming back." He dropped the chart back into its holder along with the one in his hands and walked back to Raylan, pulling gloves on as he neared the bed.

The wounds on Raylan's shoulder and arm were covered only by a light dressing. The doctor carefully peeled them away, probing the wounds with professional fingers.

Raylan turned his head to watch the doctor. "How do they look?"

"They're healing very nicely," Doctor Carter said, recovering the wounds. "Tell you what, let me take another scan of that shoulder to make sure they're nothing nasty going on inside. If that comes back clean, I'll take you off the IV and you can go home in the morning. How does that sound?"

"It sounds perfect," Raylan plucked at the hospital bed with one hand. "Be nice to sleep in my own bed again. When can you do the scan?"

Doctor Carter checked his watch. "Right now, actually."

Raylan nodded. "Let's get it done then."

"I'll be right back with a wheelchair," Doctor Carter said with a smile, holding one hand up. "Oh, I know you can walk. It's just hospital policy. I'm sure you understand."

He stepped through the door, letting it swing closed behind him.

Raylan watched a bird fly past outside of the window. The weather had finally cleared, leaving the sky cloudless and icy. It seemed to stretch out forever, cast in rich, inky blue. The streetlights slowly flickered to life, dull yellow light sapping the colour from the streets.

The door opened behind him. Raylan turned, expecting one of his guards. His eyes widened at what he saw.

Doctor Carter stood just inside the room, one hand resting lightly on a sturdy looking wheelchair. He held a gun in the other hand, pointed straight and steady at Raylan's chest.

"What is going on?" Raylan asked. He kept his hands open and loose by his sides. He fixed his eyes on the doctor's face so he wouldn't glance at his bag, where his gun was hidden, tucked away in a locked box.

"It's time for your scan, Raylan," the doctor said, voice low and cold.

The sound of it sent a shiver down Raylan's spine. It was the same voice he'd heard from countless murders and rapists. He knew that nothing good would come from going with the man.

"You mind if I sit down for a while?" Raylan asked, easing towards the bed. "I'm a little light headed from standing."

He let himself sway as he reached the bed, grabbing the footboard for dramatic effect.

The doctor frowned at him. He lifted the gun a fraction. "Get in the chair."

Raylan shook his head. "No. You're not going to get away with this. I have two guards right outside the door. They'll come busting in if I yell loudly enough."

Carter shook his head. "True. You think they'll be fast enough to stop me shooting you?" he sneered. "I mean look at you. You can't even walk across the room without hanging onto the furniture. No way you're going to dodge a bullet in the gut."

Raylan held up a hand. "Okay. You got me there." He wrapped one hand around the strap of his bag and tugged it towards himself ever so slightly. "You're right. No way they can get in here quickly enough to stop you shooting me."

"What are you doing with that bag?" Carter asked. His finger tightened on the gun's trigger.

Raylan stared at him, knowing there wasn't time for him to get his gun out. "I'm looking for a shirt. It's chilly in here," he said, keeping his tone low and calm. "Let me get one and I'll come with you."

"Oh, there's no need. We can do this right here." Carter shoved the wheelchair away from himself and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, dark cylinder and held it up. "Do you know what this is?"

Raylan lifted an eyebrow. "Pepper pot?" he asked, and shrugged.

The doctor laughed and pressed his thumb down on the device. "Nope. I believe you folks call it a dead man's switch. Means if I let go of it, a bomb will go off."

Raylan's fingers touched wood. He turned the box slowly, feeling for the lock. "So where is the bomb?"

Carter laughed. "Oh, this is the best part. It's with your little friend Hope and all of your buddies at the courthouse."

The lock clicked open as Raylan rolled the last number into place. He drew the gun out with one hand, keeping it hidden below the shirt he'd piled on top. "Is that the only bomb?"

"Yep." Carter laughed. "You have a choice. Either you can die, or you can shoot me and blow a public building full of people to bits." He tilted his head. "Which will it be?"

Raylan closed his eyes for a second, centring himself. "I don't see why it has to be either. Can we just talk about this for a minute? What is it that you want?"

The doctor laughed again. "I don't want anything. My boss is paying me very well to make sure you and your trouble making buddies are out of the picture. His business was doing rather well before you started your investigation." He tilted the dead man's switch meaningfully. "Choose now. Either come with me, or I'll let go of this switch. Which will it be?"


	37. Chapter 37

Author's note-

I'm back. Sorry it took me so long to update this. I've been trying to get my life back on track. Had a little holiday, just to get away from things. Found a fantastic apartment that I really love. It's so much nicer than the last one. (And no bad memories attatched to it, yay.)

Anyway, here's the new chapter. Hope you enjoy.

Lou

Chapter Thirty Seven

Ten long, slow minutes had passed. Hope turned her head, wiping an annoying bead of sweat from her jaw line. Both of them were sweating freely, stress and the sheer effort of standing still making the office a small, humid space.

"Why are you here?" Hope asked. Tension played through her voice, making it crack.

Tim lifted an eyebrow. "Misplaced chivalry?"

Hope blinked, and let her gaze drop from his face. "Oh."

He smiled, blowing a breath through his teeth. "You helped a friend of mine. He'd not here to pay you back, so I am."

"Raylan saved my life." She huffed a mirthless little laugh. "I'd say we're about even."

The fire alarm cut off suddenly, dropping the room into silence. Tim could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Is that good?" Hope asked, licking dry lips.

Tim looked around. "I hope so. I really hope so. Maybe the bomb squad are finally here."

She nodded and fell quiet, staring at the box with scared eyes. Tim rolled his head from side to side slowly, trying to ease the cramp starting at the base of his spine. The movement didn't help much. He sucked in a slow breath, focusing on his breathing so he could ignore the pain.

Booted footsteps on the tile floor outside broke the silence.

"Hello?" a female voice yelled. "I'm Alanna Lilien. I'm leading the bomb squad today. Is it okay for us to come in?"

Hope laughed, breath hitching into a sob. "They're here. Maybe we'll live through this thing!"

"I'll do my best, ma'am," Alanna said through the door. "Is Marshal Gutterson in there with you?"

"I'm here," Tim called. "Door's locked. I can open it for you."

"Okay. Slowly take your hands off the box. Hope, you need to keep hold of it, just for a few more minutes. Can you do that?"

Hope stared at Tim, tears slowly tracking down her face. She was pale and trembling with exhaustion, bruise like shadows under her eyes.

"I don't think I can," she whispered. "My arms feel like they're falling off. I'll drop it. I know I will."

"I'll hold it. You open the door," Tim said. "A few steps, turn the key, and this will be all over."

She sniffed hard and nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

"Ready?" Tim held her eyes.

"Ready," she said and carefully pulled her hands out from under his.

The box shook a little. Tim stared at it, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he waited for something- anything- to happen.

Hope scrambled across the floor, crashing into the door as she fumbled for the key with numb, swollen fingers. It turned under her hand with a click. She fell backwards, the adrenaline finally crashing.

The solid door swung open as the bomb team rushed through. Alanna pointed at Hope. "Get her out of here."

A member of her team scooped Hope up and carried her out of the room.

"Marshal Gutterson. How are you doing?" Alanna asked, crossing the office to examine the box.

"I'll be a lot better when you tell me this is dead," Tim muttered.

"I'm sure you will," she said with a distracted smile as she ran her fingers over the box's lid. "Give me the camera, Josh," she said to one of her team.

He handed the fibre optic camera to her, holding onto the control unit. She carefully slit the tape holding the box closed and worked the camera through the tiny opening she had made.

"What do you see?"

Josh moved the controls, eyes fixed on the small screen. "Huh," he said after a moment, brow wrinkled. "It's safe. There's a cell phone and a some wood. No wires. No bomb."

Alanna moved to examine the screen. "Let's play it safe, yes? Pass me the sniffer."

Josh set the camera controls down on the desk and pulled a device from his bag. It was a reinforced yellow box, with a screen on the top. An attached wand stuck out of the side.

"This picks up any traces of explosive," Alanna explained to Tim. "It's not one hundred percent accurate, but if there's a large amount of explosive in that box, it will find it."

She thumbed on a switch and ran the wand slowly over the box. The screen stayed dark.

"I think you're safe to put that down, Marshal Gutterson."

He set it onto to the desk carefully, then stepped back, stretching his arms and back. The cramp finally eased as he bent forward, stretching the long muscles down the sides of his spine.

Alanna pulled a knife from her belt and slit the rest of the tape, lifting the phone out the examine it. After a moment, she handed it to Tim. "It's safe. Seems to have an open call, though it's muted."

"Un-mute it," Tim said quietly.

She nodded and hit the right button. A recorded voice filled the room.

"I have Marshal Givens. By now, you know the bomb wasn't in the box. I did hide one though. I'm giving your Marshal a choice. Either he gives up his own life, or I detonate the bomb. It's in a public place. Better get looking if you want to find it."


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty Eight

Raylan stumbled on a patch of broken concrete, catching himself with one hand on the cinder block wall. A glance over his shoulder showed that the gun was still pointed firmly at his back. He walked on, stifling a cough from the dust in the air.

They were deep under the hospital, down in the maintenance area. Pipes lined the walls, some painted, some plain silver. The air was heavy with dust and steam. Puddles formed on the floor, grey and filmed with things Raylan didn't want to think about.

"Next door on your left. Open it and go through," the doctor said.

Raylan nodded. "Okay."

He almost walked past the door. It had once been painted green, but time and dirt had changed it to murky grey. He grabbed the handle, surprised when it turned easily under his hand.

The room inside was also a surprise. Rather than being dirty like outside, it was clean and orderly. The floor looked freshly swept.

Raylan stopped just inside of the door. "Now what?"

"Now we wait for my boss. He's coming. He's very interested in meeting you."

"Well, I just bet he is," Raylan drawled and took a seat on one of the straight backed pine chairs. He ached all over, and the dust in the hallway had made his already sore chest feel ten times worse.

The doctor slammed the door and dropped onto a seat of his own, keeping the gun pointed at Raylan.

Raylan tilted his head. "You wanna put that thing away? We both know that I'm not going anywhere."

The other man shook his head. "Nope. I'm fine just as I am."

Raylan shrugged. "Looks to me like your hand is cramping pretty badly. Guess they don't teach you how to hold a gun for hours in medical school."

The Doctor glanced down at his hand. Tremors raced through it from his over-tired muscles. "No, they sure don't teach this in medical school." He smiled wildly. "Money is way better though. I'd ask you to join us, but I'm pretty sure you'd say no."

Raylan rocked the chair back onto two legs, balancing with his toe on the ground. "Yep, I'm pretty sure I would too."

They fell silent for a long moment. Raylan let his gaze run around the room, taking in the movie posters on the cinder block walls. There was a small bed, tucked away in the corner. A faded blanket covered it. Two flat pillows leaned against the ratty headboard.

"So now what? We just wait here until your boss shows up?" Raylan asked, glancing at the doctor's hand. "'Cause I'm pretty sure that you're not going to be able to keep hold of the gun for much longer without firing a bullet." He tilted his hand, lips pressed together. "And I'd really rather that bullet didn't go in me. I have enough holes."

"He'll be here soon," The doctor said. "He promised."

"What are you gonna do if he doesn't show up? If he decides to leave you to clean up all this mess on your own?" Raylan pressed.

"He wouldn't do that. This was all his idea. He needed the money, had the land... he just left it up to me to find the girls, and treat them when they got hurt."

"So you did all the dirty work, and he got the money? Am I right? I bet I'm right." Raylan let the chair thump down onto four legs again, and stood slowly. "I'm gonna walk about a bit. You know how those hospital beds are. Make you as stiff as a board."

"Hey, sit down right now!" The doctor shouted. "Sit down, or I'll shoot you."

Raylan glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, I'm pretty sure you're not going to shoot anyone with that hand," he said and turned back to the poster he'd been reading. "Looks like you couldn't hit a barn door if you were in dead front of it."

The doctor lifted the gun, aiming it at the centre of Raylan's back. He tensed his finger on the trigger. The bullet smacked into the wall three feet to Raylan's right, throwing up chunks of cinder block and plasterboard. The impact sounded as if the entire word had been dropped on top of the room. Raylan turned quickly, crossing the space in between them in two long strides. "Told you that you couldn't hit jack shit."

He jammed his hand under the gun, pointing it towards the ceiling. The doctor fired off another shot. It almost took out the light. Raylan twisted the gun, tearing it from the other man's hand. It clattered on the floor, sliding away. The Doctor lifted his fist, swinging a wild punch that brushed over Raylan's cheek. Raylan brought his knee up and slammed it into the doctor's gut. He closed his hand over the dead man's switch, keeping the button depressed so it wouldn't trigger the bomb.

The impact knocked the air out of the other man. He sagged backwards, almost falling. Raylan lowered him onto the bed. He grunted, curling up into a ball. Raylan ignored him and picked up the gun.

The Doctor whimpered as Raylan pressed the gun to the back of his head. "I've killed lots of people. Won't bother me one bit to kill scum like you. You either tell me where the bomb is or I blow your fucking head off. Are we clear?"

"I don't know!" The doctor whined. "He didn't tell me. He's the only one who knows."

Raylan pressed the gun in harder. "Fine. Then you tell me how to get in touch with him. This ends now."

"There's a phone, in the corner. It has his number programmed into it. He told me to use it for emergencies only."

"Well, I'd say this about qualifies, wouldn't you?" Raylan asked, and backed away from the bed, keeping the gun pointed at the doctor.

He found the phone easily enough- the bright red plastic stood out against the dark work surface it was sitting on. "You, come here and phone him. Tell him you need to meet, right away. Find out how long he's going to be." Raylan smiled coldly. "Try anything and I'll waste a bullet on you."

The doctor got up slowly from the bed, crossing the room in small steps. "I think you broke my finger!" he complained.

Raylan tipped his head at the phone. The doctor lifted the handset and hit a button. "Boss, it's me. I need to see you, soon. We have huge problems."


End file.
